Designated Driver
by Cheryl W
Summary: With fatal accidents piling up at a small time race track, the brothers need to find out who’s scaring off the competition. No slash.
1. Driving Distance

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: With fatal accidents piling up at a small time race track, the brothers need to find out who's scaring off the competition. No slash.

Author's Note: Time line is Second Season, after Playthings. Please note: I am no way an expert at racing, race tracks or racing rules, but I'll do my best to keep things at least half way believable.

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Chapter 1: Driving Distance

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Maneuvering the Impala along Delaware's Route 1, Sam jerked when Dean's phone came to life. '_Little jumpy_?" he taunted himself, instantly looking to his brother curled against the passenger door, relieved that Dean hadn't noticed his reaction to the rude interruption to the quiet. It took a few more bars of musical notes from the phone before Dean lazily stretched his 6'1" frame in the passenger seat, rubbed at his still tired eyes and reached for the phone.

"Yeah," Dean mumbled, struggling to remember where he was, let alone who he even _wanted _to talk to on the phone. Before the caller made a reply, Dean put the facts together: Impala, Sam driving, getting as far away from their latest gig in Ohio as possible. Then a voice he didn't recognize was speaking in his ear.

Sam, dividing his attention between the road and his brother, could hear the sound of the caller's voice but was unable to decipher the words. It left him struggling to read Dean's body language to gauge the caller's news. Tension didn't set his brother's shoulders back nor did Dean's mouth tighten, instead his posture eased. Looking to Sam, he raised his eyebrows twice in that 'I've got one on the hook' gesture. Handicapped by only getting Dean's side of the conversation, Sam wondered if a new gig was the good news or the bad.

"Yeah, I did do some work for Tom Snyder," Dean affirmed, pulling his look from Sam and trying to determine what state they were in by the scenery he spied out the windshield.

Sam had never heard of Tom Snyder and it rankled a little. '_More things I don't know about, another gig Dean and Dad did while I was at Stanford.' _Somewhere along the line, that time had turned into a sore issue with him in a way he hadn't ever envisioned. He couldn't term it jealousy…and yet, now with his father gone, those four years were time Dean had gotten to spend with their father and he hadn't. '_Hadn't been allowed to, not with dad's parting words of "if you're going then stay gone."" _Shutting down that line of thinking, Sam concentrated on Dean's replies to the mystery caller.

"But you're not buying that."

"--"

"Oh I think I can hold my own." Uncertain why, but the cockiness in his brother's tone had Sam's gut clenching.

"--

"My brother's with me this time…" Sam felt a jolt of warmth hit him because there was something in Dean's tone: pride, maybe even gratitude or happiness. It was not the tone an older brother used when they had been saddled with their little brother's unwanted presence. But then again, even growing up, Dean had scarcely adopted that tone, that attitude toward Sam. Instead Dean had been tolerate of his little brother tagging at his heels, had even made concessions so Sam wouldn't be left alone too much or feel out of place when he hung out with Dean and his friends.

Dean's laughter broke Sam from his memories and he was treated with a snide look from his older brother, which evoked a "what?" look to shoot from his eyes. But Dean's words were not for him when he spoke again. "No, he's mechanically challenged." The barb rolled off of Sam easily, '_Yeah, well I never said Dean wasn't a jerk about teasing me!?_' he mentally advised.

"How about a reporter?"

"--"

"Yeah we'll keep it low key."

"--"

"Trust me, no one will guess we know each other."

"--"

"No. There's no way we would ever get pegged as brothers." Whatever warmth Dean's earlier words had generated, these words turned Sam's insides to ice, ice that broke off into a million sharp edges and pierced every vital organ he owed but did a special assault on his heart.

Numbly Sam heard Dean signing off with "See you at 7 tonight," but his brother's prior words were too loud in his head, too harsh, too painful, maybe too true. '_No. There's no way we would ever get pegged as brothers_.' Sure, they counted on that for their cons, right? Their covers held together on the sole foundation that what they said, who they said they were, and **were not** was believed, unshakably so. That no one ever made the connection, realized that they were brothers instead of law enforcement partners, or two strangers staging a confrontation to soften up their interview subjects. But what Dean said, how he said it, it seemed more a disconnection, a denial, more a sever to the ties of brotherhood than a deceptive slight of hand, a 'look over here and forget about what you're seeing over there' illusion.

Sliding his phone into his pocket, Dean gave a rare genuine smile to Sam, a light dancing in his eyes that had made a rare appearance since their father had died. "Now this gig I'm gonna love."

Somehow that comment, coupled with Dean's disassociation with him, only churned Sam's building hatred for their new job to a higher degree. He struggled to keep his tone even, interested, as he made a one word reply of "Yeah." Keeping his focus on the highway stretched out before him, he tried to loosen his tightening grip on the Impala's steering wheel.

Oblivious to his brother's cool response, Dean pulled a map from the floor and unfolded it, his finger tracing a route as he talked, "There have been some freak accidents, too many for this guy, Bruce Garner's peace of mind. He wants us to come in, get our take on things."

"Freak accidents where?" Sam asked, while he maintained his attention on the road ahead, his brother's enthusiasm and deliberate vagueness setting his teeth on edge.

A smile blossomed across Dean's lips as he abandoned the map to face Sam. "On the Smithfield race track," he supplied like a boy who was telling his friends that he had been drafted to a pro ball team.

Dread hit Sam, making his voice lower in tone as he countered, "So, I'm the reporter. What are you supposed to be?" But he knew the answer already, had no need to ask but couldn't relinquish his false hope so easily.

Wearing his most cocksure expression, Dean announced, "You're looking at the future winner of the Smithfield races."

Sam's response was instantaneous, emphatic, cast in iron. "No."

Misinterpreting Sam's refusal as a scoff at his odds of taking home the championship, Dean protested, "Come on, Sam, I got a shot at it."

"No. You don't.. because you're not racing, Dean!" Sam shot back, his voice rising, his eyes flaring with stonily resolve as they slammed into Dean's.

"What? Why?" Dean said, surprising both himself and Sam when his tone was one seemingly belonging to a small boy denied a treat he was certain he had finally earned.

It was not often Sam heard hurt in his brother's tone and he certainly didn't expect it to crop up over something as commonplace as the prospective of a new gig. Suddenly he felt like he knew just how hard it was to say no to a child, to your child, when their eyes were brimming with pleadings and their lips were starting to tremble. Shooting Dean a look, wondering if he was purposefully manipulating him, Sam only saw confusion in his brother's green gaze.

In that moment, Sam considered relenting, letting Dean have what Sam instinctively knew he wanted, badly. To race, to get a chance to lay claim to a trophy, to win just once in life without violence, without sacrifice, without blood and loss in the mix. '_To go over 175 mph on a race track, to have other drivers trying to send him into the wall, for him to maybe get wrecked, to lay still and bloody in another vehicle, it's crumpled metal once again entombing him…'_

"No way are you racing, Dean!" tore from Sam as memories seared into him. No, it would not happen again, he would not risk Dean again, would not lose Dean, not to the randomness of a car accident or the predictable hazards of their lifestyle …or the dangers involved in racing.

With Sam suddenly sounding entirely too much like John Winchester, Dean found anger sweeping away his earlier hurt. Lancing his hard eyes into Sam, Dean challenged icily, "Oh yeah, and why is that, Sam?"

Shooting a look to Dean, reading the anger, the challenge in his brother's eyes, in his body language, Sam felt his chest tighten in apprehension. He couldn't say racing was too dangerous. No, that would be the biggest joke in the world, not in comparison to their jobs. And somehow he couldn't force the other words from him, the real reason that the thought of Dean racing made him want to pull the Impala over and lose his lunch.

Hiding behind the guise of logic, Sam volleyed back, "Because the last thing we need is more media coverage Dean!" as if it were oblivious, as if it were the truth. Reading Dean's mounting protests, Sam rallied his campaign. "Any race is going to generate some news coverage and we can't take the risk that _either_ of our faces show up anywhere, not with the FBI after us."

Begrudgingly Dean knew Sam was right. They could not offer up any breadcrumbs to the Feds. "Well it's not like I was going to be in the race anyway," Dean sullenly returned. "Our job is to take care of things _before_ the race and be out of the scene before the 'gentlemen start your engines'." But an instant later a smile again lit up Dean's countenance. "Wait, my cover's still doable. Because of the accidents, Garner, the race tracker owner, has refused any media coverage until the day of the race…except for ace reporter Sammy Cole," and Dean gave a backhanded slap to Sam's chest. "So I go in there, do my whole race car driver routine, you do your Clark Kent impersonation and we solve this thing and bail, long before the cameras show up."

Whatever congratulatory thoughts Sam had on his quick logical excuse for Dean not climbing into a race car halted brutally. '_Leave it up to Dean to find a loop hole in any sane reasoning_.' Knowing that a full out and out refusal of his brother's plan would only cement the idea more firmly in Dean's head, Sam conceded, _for the moment. _Slipping into the role he had come to realize he had been borne to play, Dean's hunting partner, he asked "So what's up with the accidents? It's not like they aren't common occurrences in racing, right?"

"According to the Garner, there have been six accidents on the track in the last three months, serious crack ups. Four of the drivers are dead and the other two aren't going to be sliding into a race car for a long while. Five of the accidents happened doing practice runs," Dean supplied, grateful for the truce Sam was offering, even though he knew it was only temporary.

"Any chance it is just sabotage?" Sam hazarded, surprised to find himself wishing that the culprit would turn out to "simply" be human treachery.

Dean shrugged. "Good possibility. The next race, a NASCAR representative is coming to check over the drivers, see if any of them have the stuff to make it in the big times."

Sam whistled, "Talk about high stakes to win. Definitely could make cutting your competition's brake line very tempting."

"Yup."

Swiveling his eyes from the road to his brother, Sam asked incredulously, "And you want to get in the ring with these guys? It's like swimming with sharks when there's blood already in the water."

Dean's eyebrows bounced and his eyes glimmered in excitement, "Oh yeah."

A gruff bark of "No way," slipped out of Sam's mouth, destroying his earlier plan to play it cool, to maneuver Dean later, with better words, with stronger logic, with something Dean would respect better than his little brother worry.

"Hey, that's my cover and a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," Dean drawled, showering Sam with his smug smile.

"You're not doing it, Dean. You hear me," Sam growled, eyes swiveling from road to his brother like an intense tennis match.

But Sam's tone struck a nerve with Dean, sent his smile to the four winds. "You don't call the shots, _little brother_. You're not dad," a lethalness, a bitterness in his voice, in the cast to his eyes.

Jaw jumping, Sam slammed his foot down on the brakes, pulled the car over, nearly had the Impala's passenger side wheels in the grass before the vehicle halted.

Hands bracing against the dashboard as the car came to a stand still, Dean grumbled, "Oh great, you leaving again. Well this time remember to take all of your crap, including your dirty laundry."

Sam's face scrunched up in surprise as he incredulously turned to Dean, "I'm not leaving!"

"Oh so I guess I should thank you for that," Dean coldly returned, eyes cutting into his brother. "Thanks Sam for not doing what comes naturally to you."

"Screw you, Dean!" Sam instinctively retaliated.

"No, Sam, screw you!" Dean growled back instantly. "I'm done begging you to stay. You wanna go then go…."

"Why don't you just finish it," Sam taunted, a dangerous air stirring between the brothers that wasn't commonplace. "If I'm going I might as well just stay gone, right?" he repeated his father's sentiments, didn't think he would ever forget them, no matter how much water went under the bridge of his relationship with his father.

Instead of spiking anger in Dean, his brother's words evoked sadness in him, made Dean's voice come out quiet, his eyes shadowed as they held onto Sam's. "That just made it all the easier, didn't it? You never planned on coming back anyway. Dad saying that..it just allowed you to make a clean break, guilt free."

"Dean I…" Sam began, always lost when it came to the subject of his leaving Dean, of his act of severing the ties that he had always counted on to be with him forever.

"Don't lie, Sam. Not to me," Dean lowly insisted, but he climbed from the car and slammed the passenger door before Sam could make a reply.

Surreally Sam tracked Dean as he walked in front of the Impala, couldn't put the pieces together, didn't want to, not until Dean yanked open the driver's side door.

"Out," Dean ordered, hard eyes on Sam, abandoning the idea of pleas, of Sam caring that he didn't want this, that he wanted family and brothers and together. Wanted it and was cursed for that need, was poisoned by that desire, by that pipedream that he kept clutching to like a man holding onto a electric, barbwire fence with his bare hands.

Fear shot through Sam as his eyes swung up to Dean's and he couldn't find the mercy, the affection his brother always kept in reserve just for him. Afraid to get out of the car, shaken with the belief that if he did, Dean would leave him standing numbly along the highway, Sam chose instead to slide across the seat to the passenger side of the car.

Snorting, knowing his brother's tactics, Dean got into the Impala, put the car in gear and sent it skidding back onto the highway. He tried to shut out the presence of his brother, to pretend it was just him and his baby and the road. Struggled to shut down the painful memories of looking in his rearview mirror as he headed toward Burkitsville, seeing Sam standing alone on a dark highway, of waking up and finding Sam gone the morning after he had told him what their father had revealed about Sam's possible destiny. Waking up abandoned by his brother after he had frigging _begged_ Sam to give him some time to think things through, to come up with a game plane

Biting his lip, Sam wanted so badly to defuse the argument, to smother the burning fear that was only stoking higher in him. Could do neither, not alone, not without his brother's help, not without his brother's strength there to see him through the emotional minefield. His anguished eyes on Dean's closed profile, Sam quietly said, "You almost died in a car accident, Dean. Doesn't that register with you?"

Surprised at his brother's words but unable to release his anger, his fear that Sam would leave, wanted to leave, Dean curtly denied, "That wasn't a random car accident, Sam."  
"Doesn't matter, Dean. You were sitting in a car, in your car dying and if you think I'm ever going to forget that…." Sam choked off the rest of the words, had to before his voice broke, before he let Dean see that there were worst things than having your Dad tell you '_if you're going stay gone_.'

Sam's emotions snarled Dean's heart as they always did. Shooting a look to his brother, Dean saw the remembered terror and pain in his brother's blue expressive eyes and his anger began to dissolve, to be replaced by his need to protect his little brother, to wipe away the hurt in his brother's eyes. "Sam, there's no such thing as a safe gig. They all have their risks…"

"So don't take more risks, Dean. Stop being so reckless!" Drawing in a steadying breath, Sam sought to present his case rationally. "You keep telling me how you're staying with me, that you're not going to die. Well you're right, what we do..it's dangerous, deadly…which means you have to do everything you can to be safe, to survive. And that means not setting yourself up as bait for every job we do."

"I don't…" Dean began, voice quiet instead of rancorous.

"Yeah…" Sam just as quietly cut in, "yeah you do and it's got to stop."

Eyes now gentled by Sam's display of honest concern, Dean gave his brother a quick look, saw the pleading in his brother's demeanor. "Sam, it was Bruce Garner's idea to make me a driver," he deflected, hoping to sway Sam's mind, to make his brother see that it wasn't his idea to play Speed Racer. No need to gloat at how friggin' wonderful the idea was. Sam's calm words sliced into the fantasy in his head of racing at 175 mph, weaving between race cars, heading for the checkered flag.

"Go in as a mechanic instead," Sam offered, his voice even, logical, but his eyes gave him away, held the same plead they had since he was five years old. '_Please Dean, do it for me_.'

"Come on, Sam," Dean instantly protested, "I can't figure out stuff if I'm stuck on the sidelines."

Shifting higher in his seat, feeling like Dean had unknowingly given him a hand hold, Sam countered, "I'm a reporter. Can't get more sidelined than that."

"That's where Geekboys do their best work," Dean sallied with a toss of a smirk to his brother. But he couldn't see any melting in his brother's resolve, could only see his brother's shoulders hitching higher, his eyes darkening. '_Ah crap, he's not gonna let this go.'_

Abandoning pride and posturing and everything else that was weighing him down, was making him lose this argument, Sam entreated, "Please Dean, just tell Garner that you want to be a mechanic. That way you can check out all the cars, rule out mechanical problems."

Dean didn't even disguise his displeasure as he whined, "Sam, I want a shot at racing! I know you think hunting's all I ever wanted out of my life but it's not!" Gripping the steering wheel, Dean cursed himself for allowing the confession to slip free, purposefully kept his eyes on the road, away from Sam. Knew Sam would be wearing some look of pity or sorrow or..something that Dean didn't want to see, didn't want his brother to wear for him.

Sam looked away, out the passenger window, knew he should rescind his request, should let Dean have what he clearly wanted. But he couldn't get the words past his constricted throat, couldn't give up what he wanted, namely his brother alive, well and in one piece.

At his brother's unexpected silence, Dean chanced a glance to Sam, could see the desolation in the set of his brother's posture, in the emotions still tainting the air in the Impala. Leaving the quiet stand, Dean turned his full attention back to the road ahead.

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As he and Sam left Bruce Garner's corporate office, Dean could feel his brother's eyes on him. Knowing that he wasn't going to be able to avoid the chick flick moment, he decided the best he could do was control it. "Don't make a big deal out of it," Dean growled, shooting Sam a stern look which did nothing to diminish his brother's goofy smile.

"No, never," Sam returned, raising his hands in surrender, smiling from ear to ear.

"Ah don't…" Dean whined, realizing that Sam wasn't going to let things rest without playing out an entire Hallmark scene.

"Don't what?" Sam asked, vying for innocence but his dancing eyes refused to dim.

"Don't you dare thank me for wussing out," Dean growled, still feeling humiliated at the look that had come over Bruce Garner face when he had opted out of portraying a driver. Pointing back to the office they were leaving, Dean snarled, "Did you see the way he looked at me, Sam!? He thinks I'm _scared_ to get in a racecar!"

Sam's jaw jumped, he hadn't missed the older man's disgusted look to Dean, nor the man's pointed slam, '_Maybe I've called the wrong people to handle this. Someone getting spooked by rattles in their houses is something you can deal with, getting in a race car, going __fast__, dealing with people dying…guess that's something else for you guys_.' And it had taken all of Sam's control to not defend his brother's courage to the pompous jerk, to not take a menacing step forward to do…_crap_, he didn't know what to the other man.

To Sam's surprise, Dean had accepted the insult without retaliation, had simply said, "You've called the right people. We'll make sure no one else gets hurt."

"You better," Garner had shot back, the coldness in his brown eyes and the set to his time lined, yet strong features conveying that he wasn't a man who handled disappointment benevolently. He had followed that up with a restatement of the terms of their agreement of employment: "And don't blow your covers. I don't want anyone learning that I did something so pathetic as to hire some lame "ghost hunters". You screw up, let even a _hint _drop that the new reporter and mechanic even knew each other, let alone are brothers, I won't pay you a cent." (Like that was some leverage he wielded over them, like they were actually used to getting paid in their line of work.)

Even that threat Dean had taken without outward anger, "Don't worry. No one's going to find out who we are or what we're doing here." But what Sam heard his brother saying was '_No one's going to find out we are brothers_.'

Now, as Dean walked ahead of him, outpaced him in the stride for the Impala, Sam's smile fell away. He knew it was stupid to feel hurt by the deception they were about to undertake. They had played a thousand cons in their lifetime, had scarcely _ever_ cast themselves as brothers. Had even a time or two played the role of adversaries like they did in the bar in Rockford, Illinois. '_Yeah, and we all remember how well that went. Couple hours later and I'm turning psycho on Dean and trying to murder him with rocksalt and an unloaded gun_,' Sam thought morbidly, still carrying guilt over the incident from over a year ago.

Climbing into the passenger seat of the Impala, Sam looked to Dean, found himself anticipating the start of his brother's brain storming, of being Dean's sounding board and partner. Startled, he almost intercepted his brother's hand as it headed for the volume tuner on the tape deck. Instead he felt a jolt of sadness as his brother turned the music up, let that sound take the place of brain storming and partnership and, seemingly, brotherhood.

And Sam realized what he truly feared, had feared since their father had died and Dean had closed himself off from him: that their bond was breaking, that Dean was busy cutting their ties while he was desperately cinching them. That Dean had come to realize that being brothers, being _his_ brother wasn't worth the terrible weight that his father had placed on his shoulders, that he himself had laid on Dean's shoulder when he had exacted from Dean that 'kill me to save me' promise at the Bed and Breakfast.

Staring at his brother's closed off expression, Sam felt the distance growing between them as it had been since their father's death, since the revelation of his pending fate. He knew that, though he could reach out and touch his brother, he had never been so far away from Dean than he was right then. Suddenly one fear trumped them all: That their new charade would become real, that some cruel twist of fate would allow the connection to his brother that he felt so strongly to be buried so deeply that it would be undetectable, not only to the Smithfield race organization…but even to him.

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading!

Slow start I know but the action will pick up.

Have great day!

Cheryl W.


	2. Investigative Pitfalls

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: As I've admitted to some of you, I'm struggling a little with being responsible to have the boys solve a mystery _and_ keep the story interesting and the plot moving. I'm really hoping not to bore you with the investigation part. Cheers to all you writers who solve a mystery with every story you write, keep it riveting and make it seem so easy!!

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Chapter 2: Investigative Pitfalls

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Knowing that, whether he liked it or not, hunting was always the common ground between he and Dean, Sam nearly sighed as he begrudgingly set his focus on the job at hand. "So what's the plan?" he said loud enough to be heard over the music bouncing off the Impala's interior.

Turning down the music with a flick of his wrist, Dean began, his eyes purposefully fixed on the road, "Well there's the two drivers who survived their crashes." His thoughts, however, were still turning over Bruce Garner's insinuations. It had been a long time since his bravery had come under fire. Sure, his father had griped about his efficiency, Sam tended to disagree with his methods, but his bravery? It was the one thing he thought was unquestionable…in every one's eyes but his own. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he wished he knew what Garner had seen in him, where the hole in his fortifications needed to be plugged, where the truth was seeping through the cracks of his walls.

"Yeah, two drivers. One of which Garner won't let us talk to. Sounds suspicious to me," Sam insinuated, disappointed that he wasn't grabbing more of Dean's attention about the gig _he_ insisted they do. At his brother's silence, he impatiently prodded, "Dean?!"

Shutting down the echo of Garner's insult pinging in his head, Dean swung his look to his little brother. "What he said, Sam, was it was no _use_ trying to talk to Phillips," he corrected, tagging on a smug smile that was all for Sam's benefit. "Driver wasn't allowing anyone from the racetrack to see him. From the sounds of his injuries, I wouldn't be up for show and tell either if I had the extent of burns on my face he apparently does."

Not disputing Dean's clarification, Sam sighed, "Ok, fine. Then what about the other driver, Stapp? He's at home recovering, right?"

"Yup. Sounds like the perfect interview candidate for you tomorrow while I start my new job," Dean gloated, the spark again returning to his eyes at the prospect of even being _around_ a racetrack.

Heart twisting at his brother's obvious enthusiasm for the normal job aspect of their con, Sam spoke, striving for lightness to match the small smile he directed at his brother. "Yeah, well, don't forget we're working a _supernatural_ job, Dean."

"Don't get your Huggies in a bunch. I'll make sure I always have my super hero costume on under my work coveralls," Dean sallied back, touched that, though his brother's words mirrored something his father had said to him time and again, the tone was all gentle, worried, emo Sam. "Guess I better drop you off at the car rental place so Sammy Cole had pick up his own ride," he glibly pointed out, eyes shooting a quick assessing look to Sam. Not seeing a protest or regret in his brother's features, Dean focused again on the road and told himself that it didn't bother him that they were splitting up for this hunt, that he and Sam wouldn't be able to talk to each other out in the open starting tomorrow. After all, why should it bother him when it didn't bother Sam, right?

For the next few miles, the low sound of the radio was the only noise in the classic car as Dean unerringly made his way through town as if he had a GPS in his head of every small town USA. Sam admired that about his brother, hoped one day he would have the guts to tell Dean that…along with the million other things his brother did and was that he admired.

Sam felt dread settle in him as the auto rental sign came into sight, announcing that his separation with Dean was at hand. '_Get a grip. It's not like you're going into different states.' _Snidely his mind tacked on_, 'Like you did two months ago by your choice_.' Internally he cringed, not only at his action but at the small voice in his head that accused him of bucking the separation only because Dean had instigated it this time.

Driving past the auto rental agency, Dean pulled the Impala into a side street parking space two blocks down the road. Bringing his car to a halt but making no move to shift it into park or cut the engine, Dean looked over at Sam. He couldn't help responding to the confused, almost hurt look on his brother's face. "It's better if we're not seen together in town."

Caught off guard at the suddenness of their act of separation, Sam stammered, "Ah…yeah…right." Hand reaching for the door handle, he tried to think of something to say, something to make this feel better, to wipe away the notion that they were making a colossal mistake. Coming up dry, he swallowed, swung his look away from Dean and got out of the car. Opening the back door, he pulled his bag free and slung it over his shoulder. Awkwardly standing there on the curb, silent, he pleadingly met Dean's eyes.

"I'll call you," Dean quietly offered, feeling vulnerable with Sam standing outside the Impala and him inside, with them splitting up. '_Course this is a dream come true for Sam. Getting to run his own research, to come to his own conclusions without me there mucking up his thinking process, to have his independence from me, to not feel like my luggage_.' Meg's words still trapped in his head even after he knew what Meg was, what she had sought to do with words like that. It was a sick twist of fate that their Dad's dying accomplished what Meg hadn't been able to. Achieved it in one fell swoop. _Split him and Sam up?_ **Check.** _Make them at odds with each other_? **Check**. _Shake the trust they had in each other?_ **And double check**.

Shifting from one foot to the other, eyes on his brother, Sam suddenly took a step forward to rest his hand onto the open passenger window frame, reluctant to let Dean drive off, for them to be parted, even for a night. It just felt wrong, like they were going against the natural order of things, were breaking some Winchester code of conduct. But '_Yeah, cause Dad leaving us eating his dust for a year was sure validation that we Winchesters stick together_,' sourly popped into his head.

Reading a vibe of desperation in his brother's expression, Dean tilted his head and gently asked, "What?"

For Sam, it suddenly felt like he was again standing out in front of his Stanford apartment after their hunt for their father in Jericho. That he was about to simply watch his brother drive away, watch Dean slip away from him after they had been apart for two years. Remembered that he had been willing to let Dean go without any real reassurances that they would ever talk again, be brothers ever again…just for his desperate, hopeless need for normalcy…for safety. '_For a life I didn't deserve. Not when I'm the cause for all this, for Mom's death, for Dad hunting, for Dean denied any shot at his own dreams… of racing cars and having a family to come home to instead of a car and a cursed little brother.'_

In a reversal of roles, Sam wanted to tell Dean that they made a great team. To try, as Dean had more than a year ago, to bind them together, to make the vague yet unmistakable offer for them to stay together. "Dean…"

"Yeah," Dean snapped, wondering what was going through Sam's head, if his brother was hesitating because he thought he was too weak to be alone, to work a case without his little brother having his back. "Today Sam. I want to check into the motel before dark, get a look around, see where the other drivers and mechanics stay."

His unspoken sentiments buffeted by his brother's gruffness, Sam slid his hand from the Impala and stood back from the car. "I'll call you after I interview Stapp," he coolly replied.

"Ok," Dean agreed even as he put the car into motion. Finding that he couldn't just leave Sam there, Dean chanced a look in the rearview mirror even as he chided himself. '_He's not a kid anymore. He doesn't need you to protect him 24/7. Doesn't want you to even try._' But as his eyes landed on the tall frame that was his brother, Dean was unprepared to see the look on Sam's face that was so reminiscent of that dejected boy he had left at hundreds of bus stops growing up. Everything in him screamed for him to stop the car, to return to Sam, to tell Garner what he could do with his cover story. But in a blinking of an eye, the expression disappeared from his brother's features and Dean wondered if it was his own wishful thinking that had him seeing things that weren't there.

With his foot hovering over the brake, Dean watched Sam turn around and begin the two block hike back to the car rental agency, his shoulders high and his stride determined. Chastising himself for misreading his brother's expression, for thinking there was regret and longing in his brother's look instead of a look of relief at the freedom he had been granted, Dean prodded the Impala forward. '_Sam's not like me. He doesn't hate being alone. Fact is, he's happiest doing his own thing, by himself. And his deciding to take up the family tradition of hunting to honor Dad, that doesn't change a thing. His leaving me behind after Rivergrove should be proof enough of that, for even someone as thick headed as me_.'

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Picking out the rental car, a task Sam usually relished, was surprisingly depressing to him. Dean wasn't there to criticize his choice, wasn't muttering about the how wussy the 2006 model car was that he sat behind now. He could almost hear his brother's snort when the quiet engine kicked on, his taunt '_Well there you have it: the neuteredmobile. Sure that isn't going to be too much engine for you to handle, Sammy_?'

Pulling out of the rental car agency, Sam turned right, headed toward the motel he and Dean had scoped out when they drove into town, the one they had decided would make a decent base of operation …for him. Dean's own lodgings were only a few miles from the race track, a motel that Garner used to house his racing crew who didn't live locally.

It wasn't the first time Sam found himself checking into a motel alone…but it never felt _good_, right. Fact was, it hardly ever boded well: Him hunched over his laptop desperately Googling for a miracle while Dean lay in the hospital after his electrocution, dying; Walking into that room in Fayette Indiana, alone, after skipping out on Dean in the middle of the night after his revelations about their father's last words about him; Sinking down onto the one of two beds in that motel in Baltimore where he had checked in as James Rockford, overwhelmed with the weight of finding a way to get Dean out of jail and knowing that Dean was fully expecting him to work on the case, to put all his efforts into saving some stranger from the ghost's next attack instead of worrying about something so trivial as his brother getting a lethal injection for murders he never committed.

"Single or double?" the motel manager's question broke Sam out of his unpleasant memories, only to add another layer to them. All three times that he had checked into a motel room alone, he had always gone with a double bed room, prayerfully, hopefully and determinedly believing that he wouldn't be alone that long, that Dean would be there that night…the next night…soon… sometime. But this was different, this separation was by mutual choice, even if it was prompted by Garner's restrictions. Offhandedly, Sam wondered if that was what rubbed him the wrong way, that they had left Garner dictate to them how they would do _their_ investigation, if they would even act like _brothers_.

Feeling new anger flare in him, Sam growled out his answer, "double" and snatched the proffered keycard from the man. Vowing that before long he and Dean would put their partnership back on track, would be telling Garner where he could put his whole undercover, you're not brothers, game, Sam stalked out the door and moved the rental car to the slot outside his room.

But as he swung open the motel room door, saw the two beds, felt the empty quietness reach out to him, Sam couldn't wipe out the memory of the excited look on his brother's face at the prospect of going undercover in the racing community. A look that didn't diminish even at the stipulation that Dean had to deny that they were brothers. '_That I'm his brother._ _His little brother, guy he's always swearing to protect, to not leave_,' Sam sarcastically thought, carelessly tossing his bag on the bed. "Mention something about racing and he's gone, barely remembers he _has_ a brother," Sam dejectedly mumbled, knowing he was acting like a hurt, jealous child but willing to allow himself a moment or two to indulge in the feelings.

Sighing, Sam got his emotions back under control and dragged his laptop out on the table. Sinking into the chair, he connected to the internet and began his designated job in his and Dean's partnership: research. Doggedly he began to bring up information on the race track and the most recent wrecks, was surprised to find tension singing through him as if there was some imminent, Dean's-in-danger type deadline that he was working against. Which was foolish because Dean had relented to his little brother pleas, had gone in as a mechanic, not a driver and as far as they knew only race drivers were getting targeted.

Ruthlessly Sam denied that his desire to wrap the job up quickly had anything to do with the conspicuously untouched second bed or with his nervous habit of fingering his cell phone which was beside his laptop or with the silence in the room that was making his skin itch. Nope, those things weren't a factor at all to his determination. Saving people, that was his goal, his focus. It would just be an added bonus if, long before the week's end, he found himself in the Impala's passenger seat, his brother at the wheel, and them heading out of town, together.

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Pulling into the parking lot of the motel Garner had directed him to, Dean felt his gut clench as the group of people on the second floor leaning against the rail and talking, bottles in hand, all turned to watch his entrance…rather the _Impala's_ entrance. "Crap, should have let Sammy take the Impala and _I_ should have rented a car…something nondescript," he grumbled under his breath, remembering too late the way things had been in high school when the Impala had instantly granted him allies ..and enemies.

Now, here, among actual _professional_ race car drivers, Dean knew the prime condition, black paint gleaming Impala was an unmistakable boast about driving skills. '_Which would be great, appropriate…if I was pretending to be a race car __driver__ instead of a race car __mechanic__. Thanks Sammy…I'll be lucky if I don't get my teeth knocked out and the Impala isn't crowbarred_.' But he winced at his own thoughts…at the memory of how the crowbar had felt in his hands as it ripped into the beloved metal of the Impala, of one of the few things in life that he could claim as his own. Immediately he shut down the whys of that one, wanted to not think about that, about his father, about his father's prediction about Sam, at least for a few days. '_Forever'_ his mind tagged on, where wishes that couldn't be granted were always waiting to ambush him when he least expected it.

As he cut the engine, one of the first floor doors swung open. The lanky dark haired man that stood in the doorway eyed the Impala with respect but as Dean climbed out of the car, his expression turned to one of angry disgust…the way Dean felt when some jerk was driving a prime sports car like an old granny.

Not one to back down from a challenge, Dean stood there in the open door, met the man's gaze head on and quirked an eyebrow in a 'you got something to say' gesture. It threw the man's bravo for a loop…morphed it into fury and when the man poked his head back into this room, Dean knew the guy was probably getting his four body-building buddies to join him in beating up the new guy. Suppressing a curse, Dean shut the driver's door, opened the back door and withdrew his bag. Shutting the back door, he greeted his gathered audience of the man, his three, thankfully, skinny friends with a longsuffering sigh. It didn't pass Dean's notice either that three guys and two girls from the second floor party were coming down the stairs seemingly intent on joining them.

Not wanting to hamper any defense he would have to make, Dean dropped his bag on the ground. Spreading his hands out, he offered a goading smile to the front man. "Ah…a welcoming committee. Is the fruit basket already in my room?" he quipped, pointing to his motel room door.

"You got a smart mouth…" the dark haired man sneered, eyes clashing with Dean's before they settled on the gleaming hood of the Impala. "And a car you're not worthy to drive, _grease monkey_."

"Oh, I see. We're going to go the mature route…calling each other names," Dean amicably said, nodding his head. But a moment later, when he took a step closer to his antagonist, his eyes telegraphed something that sent the other man tensing with that fight or flight instinct. Lowly Dean threatened, his green eyes turning opaque in their deadliness, "I'm not looking for trouble. I'm here to do a job but if trouble's something you want…you better want it badly." Reading doubt in the other man's eyes, Dean shifted his glare to flicker to the three men behind the other man, let them know that he wasn't scared to take them all on if he had to, that his threat was for them as much as it was for the big mouthed jerk facing off with him.

Settling his look again to the first man, Dean indiscernibly tensed to attack, felt himself wanting to unleash some fury onto the deserving jerk. Reading the other man's intentions to back down, a spark of disappointment went through Dean. Opening his mouth to goad the man, irrationally wanting to let the man land his first punch, he found someone else butting into the confrontation.

"Anderson, you're kind of slumming it aren't you? Hanging out with us now that you've got your own private practice track," a man's voice taunted from behind Dean.

Dean didn't spare any of his attention to the newcomer, let the dark haired man in his early fifties come to a stop at his side without much reaction.

"Well, Tim, hanging out with a washed-out mechanic like you has always been slumming it in my books," Anderson shot back to Tim, eagerly shifting his anger to an opponent that didn't have the potential to put him in the hospital.

Out of his peripheral vision, Dean saw Tim offer up a slow smile before he gave his comeback. "Then I guess you getting saddled with a washed out mechanic like me should tell you just how your driving skills rate."

Anderson's right cross was in motion almost instantly but Dean caught the man's wrist mid swing. As if it were child's play, Dean, in one fluid motion, forced the man's arm down, spun Anderson around and pinned his arm behind his back. "I've never heard of a one armed race car driver but if you want to be the first, just say the word," he hissed in Anderson's ear.

"Alright, alright. Just chill out," Anderson stammered, a hint of pain in his voice as he tried to go onto his tip toes to lessen the pressure Dean was exacting on his shoulder.

Releasing his hold and pushing the man away from him simultaneously, Dean felt his muscles coil, ready for action as Anderson faced him. But the driver turned his look instead to the mechanic. "By the end of this week, I'm going to be signing a contract for NASCAR and you'll still be stuck here on this no where track. And you always will be." He let his eyes scan the gathered crowd, "All of you will be." Then he stalked to a red Corvette, got behind the wheel and sent gravel flying as he tore out of the parking lot.

As the gathered spectators slowly dispersed, leaving Dean and Tim alone, Dean turned to the mechanic. "You have to work on that jerk's car?" Dean asked with undisguised bitterness, liking the man at his side already, especially over the jerk that had dared to imply he didn't deserve the Impala.

"Yup but it gets better. If you're Dean, the new mechanic Garner hired, you get the distinct pleasure of working on Anderson's car too," Tim drawled, his eyes moving from the departing Corvette to Dean. He gave a tight smile, "Good news is Eddie's a better driver than he is a fighter."

Latching onto the first useful information he had, Dean asked, "Good enough to win that contract he's betting on?"

Tim shrugged, "His chances are looking pretty good now," a flicker of sorrow in his brown eyes.

"Now?" Dean said, let the inquiry take him where it would but when Tim's look darkened, he knew the other man wasn't one to get played.

"Don't try and pretend you don't know about the recent wrecks. I know Garner, he would have been upfront with you, told you what's been going on around here before you signed on," Tim coolly countered, turning fully to face Dean. "Let's clear things up here and now. Garner hired you but I'm your boss. You can't cut it, you're gone. If you're getting some superstitious vibes because of the recent deaths, buy a lucky rabbit's foot…..on your way out of town."

Tilting his head as he unflinchingly met the older man's gaze, Dean found that he was starting to respect Garner's head mechanic. "I'm partial to Bugs Bunny keeping his foot and I'm not the type to cut and run when things get dangerous." He didn't show an ounce of reaction to the measuring look Tim hit him with before the other man bowed his head and gave it a shake or two.

Raising his head, Tim met Dean's eyes with embarrassment. "No, I didn't think you were the cut and run type. Sorry, Dean. We sure do know how to make you feel welcome, huh?" he shamefully apologized as he offered his hand.

Shaking the other man's hand, Dean felt the lingering tension melt between them. "Yeah, between Anderson's greeting, your interrogation and the jovial interview I had with your boss, who, by the way, isn't upfront, but blunt…like a rock, it almost seems like I'm working with my family."

Tim laughed quietly, "Sounds like my family. If we're not arguing about something it's simply because we're not talking."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, voice raw at the too close venture into his own family's true dynamics, his look dropping to his boots. '_Course Sam and I can argue even when we're NOT talking_.'

Sensing that the subject of his family was a sore issue with his new mechanic, Tim stepped to the Impala, ran his hand along the smooth black finish like a caress. "A lot of love has gone into this beauty." Walking toward the passenger side, he bent down, ran his hand over the metal like a doctor performing an examination. His startled eyes flew up to Dean's. "You fixed the frame?!" surprise in his tone.

Leaning against the Impala, Dean casually admitted, "Tangled with a Semi," purposefully not stating whether he was the one driving the car at the time. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or happy when he saw a look of true admiration shine in Tim's eyes.

"You're lucky that you walked away at all from that confrontation," Tim quietly said, his inspection back to the car, his practiced hands reaching under the car to the metal hidden from view. At Dean's silence, Tim looked up, saw the younger man wasn't looking at him and his jaw was clenched as if he was holding something back…or something together more fragile than a vintage car. Instinctively, he knew then that Dean hadn't simply walked away from the crash, not physically or mentally. Standing to face Dean's profile, he unreservedly complimented, "You did an outstanding job restoring her," feeling 100 better about his new mechanic's qualifications than he had when Garner had sprung the news of a new addition to his team on him.._hours ago_.

Dean looked sharply at Tim, at his reference to the Impala as "her". Feeling his memories of the accident fading to the background, he patted the Impala and truthfully drawled, "She's the only one who's never left me."

"I can relate to that," Tim readily agreed with a sad, knowing smile. "Almost more than I want to." Then he seemed to shake himself out of his melancholy. "I'm in room 46. How 'bout you dump your bag in your room then come down and help me drink the 6 pack I finally got cold?"  
"I don't make a habit of turning down a free drink. I'll be down in a few minutes," Dean replied with a smile. For a moment, he stood there, watched his new boss disappear into the room four doors down from his own. Digging out the room key Garner had given to him, he unlocked the door to the efficiency room. Though the room was like the better places he and Sam had crashed in over the past year and a half, Dean stood immobile in the doorway. There was a striking contrast between the room before him and the rooms that he had been in lately: There was only one bed. And for the life of him, Dean couldn't dismiss the sharp sense of wrongness that settled over him at the glaring difference.

Waging through his emotions, Dean stepped into the room and shut the door. Tossing his bag onto the table, he withdrew his phone from his pocket but doubt had his fingers hesitating over the buttons. Did Sam even want to hear from him? And what would he say, '_Don't let the bed bugs bite, Sammy?_'

Letting the phone fall out of his hand and bounce onto the bed, Dean left the room. He would give Sam same privacy for a change, let his brother know that they weren't tied at the hip. Striving for an upbeat outlook, Dean told himself that the separation between him and Sam could prove to his little brother that he had a say in this life, in this lifestyle that he had finally come to see as his own path. That maybe this was the way he could make Sam realize what he himself already knew: Sam could stand on his own, was too good hearted, was too strong to go darkside on him, now or ever. That for all the times their dad had been right, he wasn't right about this, about Sammy… '_Or about me_,' Dean bitterly thought, wondering how his Dad could ever think he would _kill_ Sam, _could_ kill his brother. Hand raised to knock on Tim's door, Dean winced as a more hurtful thought singed through him. '_How could Sam even think __for a second__ that I would kill him?! That I have any intention of keeping the promise I gave to him when he was sloppy drunk?! Crap, maybe we're more strangers than brothers after all.'_

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Dreams, goals, a future. They were for other people, had never been for him but standing along the Smithfield race track, watching the number 52 car take the inside lane on the closest turn, Dean let himself wonder where his life would have taken him if he had been allowed such luxuries. College, marriage, kids, himself working as a fireman, a _race car driver_, being a man that could take off his shirt without wondering what people would think of the scars marring his body, a man that might have a chance at looking in the mirror and not hating what he saw, a man that wasn't drowning in fear and desperation and pain?

Suddenly, he felt a stab of jealous for the man in that race car, for Tim, for all of the others he had seen at work in the race track. Each of them were following their dreams, were living their dreams..even if they were the second string type of dreams. Had found in themselves the ability, the strength to reach for something they wanted, to get it out of tenacity, or mercy or merit. But the only thing Dean had ever let himself want, he could never have: his family, together, at peace with each other. He winced at the mockery of that thought. Even in death his father knew no peace, not where he had sentenced himself. '_For me_.'

"So this is your first time working the racing circuit," Tim greeted, coming to stand beside Dean, his eyes also on the car making its practice run.

Having sensed the other man's approach, even as his thoughts had traveled their own dark corridors, Dean lazily replied after a moment, "Yeah." Invisibly shaking himself from his self pity, Dean turned to Tim, remembering he had a job to do, that his path was already carved out for him, had been his destiny after the first drop of his mother's blood had dripped into Sammy's crib. "Sounds like you've had quite the career," he said, underlying questions there if Tim allowed him to pose them.

"Had is right," Tim smirked, memories flickering in his head that Dean couldn't see.

"Sorry, I didn't mean…" Dean stammered, feeling like he was the last person on earth that had a right to criticize a man for his failed dreams.

"I know. Anderson's right, though. This is small potatoes compared to the NASCAR garages," Tim admitted and Dean realized in that moment that the man spoke from experience, watched as Tim's eyes followed the race car rocket around the track like it were a child he was proud of. "But the cars, they stay the same: no egos, no tantrums, they don't try to slug you when they come in last." Tim gave a sad smile to Dean. Dean found himself mirroring the smile, understanding the connection between man and machine that the mechanic referred to, that he himself had alluded to the night before. "Probably why I'll work anywhere I can just to get the chance to look under the hood of a race car. Pretty pathetic but there it is anyway," Tim sighed but there was a light in his eyes as well, contradicting his words, the loneliness he spoke of. "But I don't mind being pathetic," he tacked on, a cocky smile morphing his features into a man who looked younger, less world weary.

"Sadly, neither do I," Dean agreed, knowing, since his father's death, that he could find some measure of peace, even during the worst maelstroms, when he worked on the Impala, had felt like there was a part of him still able to function when his hands set to restoring the ravaged car, knew that he could fix the Impala in a way that he could never hope to fix himself. Letting silence fall again, both men watched the racecar take the outside lane on the straight stretch. "Guess the mechanic I'm replacing didn't agree with us," Dean said after a moment, hoping to use the intro as a bridge into more intense questioning.

"Nate loved working on the cars," Tim contradicted without anger, instead with regret, "but he couldn't deal with everything going on around here lately."

"The wrecks," Dean clarified, saw Tim's head bob once in agreement. "I don't mean to be pushy, or superstitious but I feel like I'm coming into this job blind. Garner said there have been six wrecks, four of which ended in fatalities. I know I've got next to no experience with racing but that just doesn't seem normal to me. And I don't believe in coincidences."

As much as he didn't want to talk about losing some of his closet friends, to resurrect his memories of burning, crumpled cars and watching corpses extracted from their metal frames, Tim knew he owed Dean some answers, knew the kid was being as respectful as he could but wasn't going to back down now. "Let's head over to the garage." At Dean's raised eyebrows of protest, Tim continued, "And I'll bring you up to speed on what you've gotten yourself into."

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Leaving Travis Stapps' house, Sam couldn't shake off the sharp void of Dean's absence that had permeated his "interview" with one of the two drivers who had survived his wreck on the Smithfield track. Sam had taken for granted Dean's propensity to always ask the weirdo questions, to let himself appear the crack pot while allowing Sam the guise of the sane one, of letting his little brother retain as much of his pride as he could. Today, Sam had had to play the part of the escapee from the mental institute. "_Did the car move by itself? Did you feel a coldness in the car? Did you see anything "weird"? Weird like…someone that was there one second and gone the next?"_ Yeah, he was lucky if Stapp and his wife weren't calling the cops, or a van from a psychiatric ward wasn't being dispatched right now.

Pointing his rental car toward the highway that would lead him to the Smithfield race track, Sam called Dean, felt annoyance as the phone rang three times before his brother bothered to pick it up.

"Yeah," Dean answered loudly, his voice barely audible above the noise in the background of an air gun removing lug nuts and metal clanking against metal.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked, raising his own voice.

"Hold on," Dean instantly replied. Sam could envision his brother walking from the garage, heard the marked difference when Dean's voice was no longer competing with the garage noise. "So what did Stapp have to say? He see Casper the racing-kill-joy ghost?"

"If he saw a ghost, he's a better liar than we are. He just said the steering wheel froze up on him as he headed into the turn, sent him headfirst into the wall. I asked if he detected a change in the temperature or if he saw anything strange." Snorting, Sam admitted, "I thought they were going to call the padded van for me," needing to connect with Dean on that point but Dean's reply didn't meet him halfway.

"So that's a dead end," Dean bluntly stated, leaning against the southeast wall of the garage, eyes on the track off to his right. "Well I've asked some questions and it's like Garner said, the wrecked cars have gone through massive inspections and there's never been any signs of foul play. And since the third fatality, each car has been double checked before it makes its way onto the track, for practice or races. If it's human sabotage, they're getting away with it clean."

"So you're thinking Garner's right? That there is something supernatural happening here?" Sam asked, hating to be on Garner's side, for anything.

"Could be. I couldn't get an EMF reading, not with all the juice flooding in here to run the garages and the PA system and the lights. I'll .." but Dean broke off as he heard Tim calling his name. "Hey I gotta go."

Unprepared for the abrupt disconnect, Sam still had his mouth open to talk when the dial tone replaced his brother's voice in his ear. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he tried to not let his anger get the best of him. It wasn't like he or Dean had the best phone etiquette in the best situations and now, trying to sneak around, it had to be expected that their conversation would be interrupted more times than not. But it was frustrating that he hadn't had time to prove to Dean that he was pulling his weight on the investigation, that his research the prior night had yielded some insight into the track's history. Sam couldn't fight the feeling that he was again hunting with his father, that he had to prove himself, had to earn the right to be treated like an equal even when he was shut out at every turn.

'_Dean's not Dad. He listens to my theories, counts on me to have his back. We're partners, equals_,' Sam denied, ashamed at even comparing the solid relationship he and Dean shared with the turbulent relationship he had had with his father for most of his life. But Sam's mind was not so easily pacified, it whispered, '_Partners, right?! And he's a full partner and you're a junior partner, always the little brother, always needing big brother to come to your rescue, to protect you. To tell you what to do.'_

Hastily turning on the radio to block out the traitorous thoughts, Sam sang off key to the modern rock songs Dean would never abide coming from the Impala's speakers. Ten minutes later he turned the volume lower as he pulled into the racing track's back parking lot. As he shut down the engine, the sound of raised voices taking the place of the radio drew him from the car to cross the parking lot to get closer to the tractor trailer truck loaded with two rows of severely damaged cars, none of which bore any racing emblems.

Coming to a stop between two pickup trucks, Sam could see the two men in their fifties arguing at the back of the truck, easily recognized Bruce Garner as the thinner of the two men. The voices were full of anger and long held resentment.

"I said get this truck off my property!" Garner growled, stepping forward, invading the other man's personal space.

But the heavier man stood his ground, matched Garner's acidic tone, "Are you ashamed of your humble beginnings?! I know honest work never was your thing, not when it was easier to loot the family business."

"Loot?! We would have had to have something of value to loot!? We had nothing. And that's what you still have, Billy. Nothing."

Billy shook his head, "Our 'nothing' got you here. You're the one that stripped all the decent parts from all the cars on the yard, made the deal with the car dealership, behind my back, behind Dad's."

"You're still whining about an opportunity I had the balls to take! It's been more than twenty years. I know all you've got is regrets but sometimes you have to move on," Bruce snidely said, a smug smile turning up his lips.

Even from the distance he was at, Sam could see Billy clenching his fists, wanting to strike out. He watched as the man reigned in his emotions, took a step back, raised his hands in supplication. "I didn't come here to fight."

"No, you came here for money," Bruce shot back, trying to humble Billy.

A beat of silence and then Billy's voice dropped, was barely audible to Sam. "For Dad. The nursing home won't put him in the full care nursing section, not without a six thousand dollar check in their hand."

"I'm sure that's pocket change to an entrepreneur like you," Bruce sardonically returned, hand waiving to encompass the truck of vehicles headed for the scrap heap.

"Is that a no?" Billy evenly asked, his expression struggling to be closed but Sam could see the lingering hope in his stance, that he was still clutching to the last strand of a relationship corrupted by time and circumstance.

"Where was the old man when I wanted start up money, huh? Told me I had to earn it, work for it. Well, he can work for his money now. He can haul all the old tires onto the dump truck," and he pointed to the pile of tires in a corner of the lot. "He can clean up the garages, spit shine the windshields of the cars."

"Bruce he can't walk without a cane, can barely remember his own name…let alone mine," Billy returned with anguish, wishing he was talking about someone else's family, someone else's heartbreak.

Bruce stilled and his features lost every ounce of fabricated mirth. "Well you're lucky. He forgot my name a long time ago. Now get your truck out of here before I call the sheriff on you again for trespassing."

"You're heartless," Billy snarled. Then, turning on his heels, he began stalking back toward the truck's cab.

"I am what he made me," Bruce called to his brother's retreating back, was somewhat disappointed that it didn't garner any reaction.

Ashamed at eavesdropping on a private family conversation, Sam was about to slip through the trucks and make his way unobtrusively to the track when a sound sent his eyes curiously to the tractor trailer. Studying the scene before him, it took him a moment to realize what the sound was: the whine of the second level of the car trailer lowering. Even as he watched, he saw the rear car shift, start to roll backwards, whatever means that should have kept it locked in position ominously malfunctioning.

With a longsuffering tone, Bruce called out, "Billy, something's wrong with your piece of junk trailer," nonchalantly looking up to see the second level of the trailer lowering. After his years of working in his family business, he was intimately familiar with the mechanics and safety of car trailers. It never crossed his mind that a car could be heading his way.

Feeling as if he were moving in slow motion, Sam broke from his cover and started to run for Garner. He yelled "Watch out!" but Garner turned around and gave him a lazy, almost annoyed look at his apparent panic. Eyes flickering up as he ran toward the rear of the truck, Sam saw the car's back wheels roll off the trailer. Something in his face registered with Garner, had the race owner spinning around, eyes flying up. Instead of reacting, Garner froze as the car rolled from the truck, headed right for him.

Pushing legs and lungs to reach Garner before the falling vehicle did, it never occurred to Sam that he might die trying to save a man he didn't even like.

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TBC

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See action, as I promised.

Again, I ask that you please bear with me as I determine how to mix an investigation in with my normal love of hurting Dean and Sam and heaping on the angst.

Thanks so much for reading!

Have a wonderful day!

Cheryl W.


	3. Learning Curve

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 3: Learning Curve

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Garner froze as the car rolled from the truck, headed right for him.

Pushing legs and lungs to reach Garner before the falling vehicle did, it never occurred to Sam that he might die trying to save a man he didn't even like.

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The ground shook under Dean's feet even as the muffled sound of metal twisting in torment and shattering glass seeped into the garage. Unerringly able to pin point ground zero, Dean was running for the garage's back door that led to the parking lot before Tim and the other younger mechanic, Derek, could even form words of wonder. Slamming out the door and without slackening his pace, Dean processed the scene instantly: the car trailer, the upside down car crumpled on the lot, the glass sparkling off the ground like spilled diamonds, the man running along side the truck, heading for the wreckage, screaming "Bruce!!"…and the second car rolling off of the top level of the car trailer.

Knowing that the other man was running into the impact zone of the second falling car, Dean yelled out in warning, "Stop!! Another car's falling!" To Dean's relief, his voice was commanding enough to break through the man's panic, to initiate a stumbling hesitation in the man's headlong pace, for the stranger's panicked eyes to seek him out.

The two second hitch in his forward motion kept Billy out of the radius of the flying debris and repercussions as the second car impacted, trunk first, with the undercarriage of the first car. But a second later the car began to topple over, heading his way. Desperate to get out of the car's path, the older Garner tripped backwards, landed on his butt on the macadam hard just as the toppling car slammed right side up, inches from his big toe.

The air still echoing with the sound of screaming metal, Dean bolted by the car and nearly slid to a crouch beside the stunned man on the ground. Hand latching onto the man's shoulder, he asked with concern, "You alright?" felt relief when the man's wide eyed gaze latched onto him and he was offered a slow nod. "Can you stand up?" he gently prompted, even as he crossed to the man's right side, slid his hand under the man's arm and slowly levered the older man to his feet. The man's shocked eyes, however, overlooked him, focused instead on the first car.

"My brother.." Billy stammered. Shoving away from Dean, he began stumbling and leaning on the cars as he made his way to the initial ground zero, to the last spot he had seen his brother.

Certain that no one could have survived the force of the initial car's impact, let alone the combined tonnage of the second car, Dean felt sick with the realization that the man had lost his brother. _His brother_. That loss hit home for Dean, left him unwilling to join the man's side, to see the man's shock morph into ravaging despair.

When the man again yelled out his brother's name, it took Dean a moment to put two and two together, to wonder if Bruce _Garner_ was the man's brother, to feel another layer of guilt wash over him. Not only had someone been killed on his and Sam's watch, but they had failed to protect the man who had purposefully sought out their help. '_My help_,' he numbly corrected, remembering that Tom Snyder had recommended _him _to Garner, that Garner had called him and him alone. Had not even known he had a brother, let alone one who was a partner in the family business. '_No, this isn't on __us__._ _This is on me_.'

A gravely voice had both Dean and Billy spinning around, their eyes drawn to the first level of the car trailer. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not deaf, Billy" Bruce Garner groused as he climbed to his feet between the two cars on the trailers' first level, his suit creased, his left sleeve hanging on by a thread and his hair sporting a rooster tail.

Dean felt Billy's relief, felt his own heart ease knowing that he hadn't failed, hadn't let another person die. But that relief evaporated as Sam materialized beside Garner. The sight, the implication of Sam _there_ made terror spark through Dean's nerve endings and the recently ever present hand of despair tightened its pitiless grip on his heart. He had almost lost _his _brother. He had almost lost Sam.

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Sam, wishing to avoid a painful encounter with a car in motion, had quickly formulated his one and only move. Tackling Garner, he felt his bones collide with the older man's as his momentum drove them both forward toward the trailer's lower level. Even as their dive landed them on the rear car's roof, Sam was scrambling onto all fours. Determined to be out of the way of flying car parts, he fisted one hand onto Bruce's suit and began yanking the other man forward to half crawl, half tumble down the car's windshield. The tremor caused by the falling car's collision with the ground sent them sliding off the hood. Landing heavily onto the trailer floor between the two cars, Sam was trying to force air into his lung when Bruce landed on him, the older man's elbow unmercifully digging into his gut.

With his ears still ringing with the reverberations of the car hitting the ground, it took Sam a moment to register that Billy was screaming Bruce's name. Since Garner was still sucking in air like a drowning victim, Sam was about to make a reply for Garner when another voice made his blood run cold: Dean's. Dean was there, was utilizing his commander tone, which he had perfected from their father, was, no doubt, about to risk his life to save Billy's.

Frantically beginning to heave Garner off him, Sam found himself falling back against the trailer bed as the ground jolted and the nails-on-a-chalk board crunch of metal upon metal ripped through the air again. A lump formed instantly in his throat and a small whoosh of air escaped his lungs that formed one single name: "Dean." In the split second of silence that fell on the heels of the roar of destruction, Sam couldn't breathe, could only think of Dean lying in that hospital bed, so still, so _quiet, _so set on leaving him. Forever.

Hearing his brother's voice with its unmasked concern for Billy had Sam swallowing down a contorted breath, had him going limp upon the trailer bed. Dean was Ok. Sam almost groaned as Bruce pressed his hand into his stomach and chest as he levered himself to his feet. When he heard Bruce speak so nonchalantly about his brush with death, like he hadn't been collapsed on top of him, breath ragging out of him like a locomotive, Sam fought the urge to kick the man's legs out from under him.

Sitting up and then using the car's bumper to pull himself to his feet, Sam felt the last of his tension melt away at the sight of his brother, standing amid the broken frames of two cars, not a mark on him. The smile he felt emerging, however, faltered under the shaken look in his brother's eyes. "You hurt?" he asked, concern wrinkling his brow.

"You hurt?" Dean asked, his words in perfect synch with his brother's. Even as he spoke, he was stalking through the wreckage to the side of the trailer where Sam stood, his eyes never leaving his brother's face, determined to catch a flicker of pain in the features he knew better than his own.

Knowing that his brother wouldn't answer his question before he answered his, maybe wouldn't answer it at all by the current set of his jaw, Sam replied, "I'm fine," with a smirk, shaking his head slightly. He watched the tension slip from Dean's shoulders at his words, a reaction he knew he alone would have detected. Ducking through the metal struts of the trailer and stepping over the railing, Sam found Dean's hand wrapping around his arm, steadying his descent onto terra firma.

Instead of releasing his hold on Sam, Dean quickly did his own visual sweep of his little brother from head to toe, making his own determination about his brother's health. When his eyes came to rest on Sam's, he growled, "What happened?", reluctantly dropping his hand from Sam's arm. But he made no move to step out of his brother's personal space, knew that the perimeter didn't apply, hadn't ever applied between him and Sam. Had always figured it was a byproduct of having grown up in such close quarters with each other, both physically and emotionally. Of course that theory didn't exactly hold water, not when the rule had never applied to their dad. Nor did it make sense that they each fiercely guarded that zone from anyone else, guarded it even _for_ each other.

"Garner was standing at the rear of the truck when the second level started lowering," Sam recounted, nodding his head to the trailer but not removing his eye contact from Dean. "Cars should have been locked in…"

"But they weren't," Dean grimly surmised.

Bruce Garner chose that moment to join the brothers, raised each man's hackles by stepping close enough to encroach upon both of their personal boundaries. Pivoting his body toward Dean, Garner turned flashing eyes upon the older Winchester who he had designated as his lead ghost hunter/grunt. "Glad to see my money's not going to waste," he sarcastically snarled lowly, his words purposefully pitched to not travel over to his own brother, who still stood, stunned, among the wreckage.

His irk raised at the man's blatant indifference to the danger Sam had put himself in for his sake, Dean hissed back, "Sam just saved your life!"

"He shouldn't have had to if you were doing your job!" Garner heatedly countered, stepping closer yet to Dean, his breath practically hitting Dean in the face. But an instant later, his eyes swung over the elder Winchester's shoulder. Seeing the approach of his employees, he tried to gauge when they would arrive on the scene, be close enough to overhear his conversation with the "ghost hunters" he had been desperate enough to hire.

Garner's words had cut through Dean like a machete. He had heard them before…from his Dad…more times than he could count. Times when he had screwed up, almost got Sam or his Dad killed or failed on a job, had cost or nearly cost someone they were supposed to be saving their lives. '_Like now_.'

Determined that his track employees never guess that there was a connection between his new mechanic and the reporter, Bruce roughly pushed his way between the brothers, callously separating them. Standing toe to toe with Dean, he commanded, his voice slipping back to the tone of the military man that he once was, "You do your job! That understood?"

"Yes, sir," Dean involuntarily replied, a knee jerk reaction to the tone his father had _bred _him to obey. Instantly horrified and embarrassed that he had responded with that respectful obedience to a bastard like Garner, Dean clenched his jaw and silently but venomously cursed himself. Cursed his weakness, his need to be commanded, cursed himself for reacting without thinking, hated himself because, for a brief moment, when he was relegated again to foot soldier instead of commander, the weight had lifted from his shoulders and he could actually _breathe_.

Standing stock still, Dean refused to even _look_ at Sam, was unwilling, _unable_ to face the condemnation he knew would be in his brother's eyes. But when Bruce knocked his shoulder as he maneuvered out of the close quarters and walked away, it jolted Dean enough to spin him a half turn toward Sam, causing his eyes to accidentally collide with Sam's. He felt sick at the disappointed, disgusted look that he read in his little brother's eyes. With the word '_pathetic_' ringing in his head in Sam's voice, he turned around, walked away, left his brother standing there, alone.

Striding by Bruce and his gathered audience, who he was beginning to regale with his near escape, Dean stalked back to the garage, despising himself more with each step. The "yes sir" had just come out of him, the response hardwired into him, like breathing, like protecting Sammy. Yanking the garage door open so hard it slammed against the cement wall, he crossed into the garage, headed to the storage area where he had been going before the accident had derailed him. Stepping into the small cement block room, he took a step forward, toward the shelves. But mid step he swung around, sent, with a yell of anger, a punch into the cement block wall. He sadistically welcomed the deserved pain even as it vibrated up his arm, sent a ribbon of ache through his whole body.

Shuffling forward, he pressed his fisted hands and head against the wall. Sam would not understand, wasn't _weak_ like he was. Would never understand that filling their Dad's void…it wasn't always a conscious choice he made. That, at times, when he had seemed to blindly follow their Dad's orders, he had resented his _need_ to try and earn his Dad's love, had hated that he was too scared of the consequences if he was anything but the obedient son. Had despised himself for only knowingly how to follow orders, how to hunt, how to protect.

No, Sam didn't understand what motivated him and somewhere down deep Dean hoped to God Sam never understood, never became what he was, never lived every moment of his life navigated by fear, fear of losing his purpose in life, fear of being alone, fear of failing those he loved. Dean drew in a ragged breath at that thought. That fear had been realized, he had failed his father, failed Sammy in a way too. Hadn't done his job, had trusted where he should have mistrusted, had let his emotions, his needs blind him. His need to rescue his father, his need to have his family back together again, his need to not be alone, to have someone take the lead and tell him what to do, to have someone there to take up the slack while he crawled in a corner and shattered.

Oblivious to the blood staining the knuckles on his right hand, Dean loosened his fists, rested his palms against the wall. He could no longer be the person he was, the good soldier he had been trained to be. For he would never follow his father's final command, would never _kill_ Sam. Could never be free of the weight he bore, not until Sam was safe, _saved_. Had to be strong enough to not break, not compromise, not follow when he _had_ to lead. Had to step out of the shadow of his father, out of the mold of hunter, out from Sam's side, had to do what he had to, become what he needed to in order to save his brother. Had to, for the first time, find out who Dean Winchester really was.

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Reaching out his hand, Sam had intended to grip Dean's arm, to stop his brother's departure, but at the last second he coiled his hand into a frustrated fist. Had stood there, cursing silently as he watched Dean walk away from him. Gut churning, confused that Dean could just blatantly follow Garner's orders, Sam wished that he understood his brother better, knew how to fill just a little bit of the void their father's death had created in Dean. Could be the person Dean turned to, listened to, obeyed, well at least when it concerned handling a threat to his life.

Feeling as if he and Dean had again come to blows, Sam absently rubbed at his cheek where Dean's fist had landed months prior when he had accused Dean of replacing their father with Gordon. Rubbed at his cheek as if the phantom pain he suddenly felt was there instead of where it truly lay: in his heart.

Dropping his hand and sighing, Sam watched Dean storm through the garage door, nearly flinched as the flung open door rebounded off the wall before slowly gliding shut. Turning his focus onto the job, he crossed over to Billy, asked without preamble, "Did you leave your truck unattended while you were here?"

The question stole Billy's attention from Bruce, sent his still too shocked eyes upon Sam. "What? Yeah, I went into the office…wanted to talk to my brother," his eyes skittering back to his brother who was recounting the story like it was a practical joke that had been played on him, eliciting nervous, relieved laughter to sputter from his gathered audience.

Sparing a look to Garner, Sam cursed the man's need to play this off like some random accident, to pretend like all of the car accidents were bad luck, simply the risks of racing. Especially when Garner sensed that they were more malicious than that, either human or supernatural in nature. Was predisposed enough to think that they were supernatural to call two 'lame ghost hunters', to put two wildcard players into his racing realm, which he controlled with a closed fisted hand.

Returning his look to Billy Garner, Sam watched the myriad of emotions flicker across the man's features as he watched his brother. "Did you release the cars from the trailer?" he point blank asked, abandoning sensitivity for the sometimes useful but blunt, 'shock 'em and catching 'em off guard' method Dean favored.

"No!" Billy nearly shouted, full attention returning to the tall young man before him. "Course I didn't do that! Those cars almost killed my brother!"

"Yeah, they did," Sam quietly said before walking over to join Bruce. He offered up a fake smile as Bruce jovially slipped his arm over his shoulders and introduced him as not only his life saver but a racing magazine reporter there to do an investigative story on the track's history, past and present. Internally Sam itched to toss Garner's arm off his shoulders, to shove the man out of his personal space and ask him who he thought he was to order _Dean_ around. Dean, who was smart enough and brave enough and strong enough not to need to follow anyone's lead. '_If only I could convince Dean of that fact,' _he sullenly thought as he resigned himself to play along with Garner's charade.

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As Dean bent over the #16 car's engine, Tim at his side, it was an ironic poke at Dean's new resolve to find himself to be the student instead of the teacher. Tim's knowledge about conditioning an engine for the demands of racing and his laid back instructional methods made Dean readily soak up the man's words. And Dean had felt a pang of pride when he answered one of Tim's questions correctly, when the older man gave his shoulder a squeeze of encouragement and camaraderie. Dean could almost hear his father's voice whispering in his head, "That's my man," an endearment that had begun long before he was a man, before any child would ever be deemed a man in anyone's prospective…but his father's. Tim's voice startled him from his memories.

"You OK?" Tim looked at his new mechanic, had seen the closed off look, knew whatever thoughts had preoccupied the younger man weren't the kind anyone disclosed to someone they had recently met. As Dean treated him to a quick smile that didn't reach his eyes and gave a quick "Yeah" in reply, Tim worriedly wondered if Dean ever opened up. To anyone.

Pulling his eyes from Dean and settling them back onto the engine, Tim casually posed, "You learn about engines on your own?"

"No, my Dad," Dean answered, hating how low his voice slipped on the word Dad He continued talking, hoping to cover it up. "He worked as a mechanic." '_Least for awhile_.'

"Me, I taught myself. My father was mechanically challenged." Shooting a smirk up to Dean he confessed, "Course the first car I took apart I couldn't get back together. Had to sell it for parts."

Dean gave a small laugh. "Make any profit off of it?"

"It was all profit," Tim boasted, a mischievous look emerging in his eyes. "It was the first car I ever stole."

Dean fought the urge to like Tim more, to trust him more at the kindred spirit they seemed to share. "But it wasn't your last?"  
Snorting, Tim returned to the engine, tightening a bolt. "That would be a no."

"So from a life of crime to racing chief, that's not a bad rags to riches story," Dean quietly returned, studying the Tim's profile, hoping to get the other man to open up a little more.

"Riches? You call this riches? Here hold this," Tim ordered, releasing the wrench to Dean's capable hands while he dug into the toolbox on the floor.

"More than most people get, getting a shot at doing what they love," Dean clarified, read the clear look of agreement on Tim's face before the older man bent under the hood again.

"Guess so. It's not about the money or fame for me, never was," Tim admitted, putting his newly acquired tool to use.

"The driver for Garner, Anderson …" Dean began.

"You mean the guy who was jealous of your car but was too scared to swung on you?" Tim pointed out, smiling up at the younger man.

"Yeah," Dean drawled, "him. He doesn't seem to have your philosophy. This is just a stop over for him on the road to fame and fortune, right? Probably the same could be said for most drivers here."

"They all have dreams to race for NASCAR, yeah. Truth is, the best of them…" Tim swallowed, felt his emotions creeping into his words. Shaking his head he began again, "There was only one guy here that deserved to go pro, Troy Nichols. He had the talent, even the heart to race." Pulling back from the engine, Tim stood up to face Dean. "Was the kind of guy you couldn't begrudge success to, he was just too likeable. Garner treated him like a son."

Knowing that Nichols was dead, was one of the track's 3rd fatality that Garner had stated like a statistic, Dean tread gently, recognized the sorrow lingering in Tim's eyes. "So he raced for Garner?"

Tim nodded. "Was Garner's top driver."

Pointing to the #16 car, Dean began, "Was he driving this car when…"

"No. Garner had three primary cars, one backup. Troy ran the #36 car. It's still sitting in its garage. I don't think Garner has the heart to scrap it for parts or restore it."

It was hard for Dean to envision Garner having the _heart _for anything, let alone sentimentality for a driver whose death cost him a NASCAR contract income. But one look at Tim's face and Dean believed the older mechanic's words. "So Garner's runner up is Anderson. And you said his odds are pretty good at grabbing the contract?"

"Yeah. Guess so if NASCAR is set on picking someone from this track. Anderson was pretty far down the totem pole when the season began but with the best driver's either dead or laid up… he's climbed to first spot."

"And you think that happened all by luck, just a string of freak accidents, right before NASCAR shows up at _this_ track?" Dean pressed, adding incredulousness to his tone as he raised his eyebrows.

Tim shrugged, "Hey I had the same thoughts running through my head as you do. But Anderson is mechanically challenged and, with each wreck, there have been no signs of foul play. I guess the tide was bound to change."

Tilting his head in confusion, Dean asked, "What are you talking about?"

Wiping his grease covered hands on a rag, Tim sighed. "That the track's luck would have to swing the other way eventually. I mean, over fifty years and, before this season, there had been only one fatally. Crap, only two guys had ever even been injured enough to be taken to the hospital. Phillips always said the track was charmed," Tim said with a smile but it soon fell away, was replaced by a grim line.

"Phillips, the last driver hurt on the track?" Dean asked, though he already knew the answer, knew it was the driver who had suffered burns on his face, who was refusing to see anyone from the track.

"Yeah, Karl Phillips. He was the unofficial track historian. Knows more about this track than that kid reporter will ever learn even if he stays here a month, talks to everyone here."

Dean felt a little offended at Tim's remark about Sam, at calling him a kid, judging his investigative talents. Dropping back down to look under the hood to conceal his features, it took Dean a moment before he could make an even reply. "But Phillips wanted his shot at NASCAR too, would have left the track he loved?"

"If Troy had the talent to go pro, Karl had earned the _right_ to go pro. He's playing against time. Was," Tim amended, earning him Dean's eye contact. "Karl's in his forties, been around racing all his life. This was his last shot at his dream."

"He can't come back?" Dean gently prodded, somehow finding that he cared about the man's fate, a man he had never met.

"Can't now, can't in time for the next race. Maybe won't ever choose to," Tim sadly wondered, alluded to the driver's disfigurement, of face and spirit.

Dean let that statement go because he understood too well about missed opportunities, about regrets, about hurting so bad it was easier to cut yourself off than to let yourself heal.

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Walking across the track fairground, Sam felt exhilarated as the sound of a race car roaring around the track filled the air. Crossing between the track office and the garages, he couldn't keep the smile off his face as the race track came into sight, felt his heart quicken at the sight of the race car blurring around the track. '_I'm acting like a kid in awe. I can't imagine the way Dean felt, standing here… so close to…_" Sam's smile slipped away as the realization hit home. '_So close to his dreams, to a dream he never let himself pursue before, to a dream I'm refusing him now_.' Jaw clenched, Sam watched the car skim by the wall on the turn, head into the straight strength pouring on the speed. Though he couldn't judge the vehicle's speed, in his head he was already calculating the extent of damage that would come to the car if it lost control…felt sick at the injuries he envisioned would come to the _driver_. '_I just can't do it, Dean. I can't stand here and let you put yourself in that type of danger. I know that makes me a selfish jerk but you're __my brother__.'_

"Takes your breath away, doesn't it," Katie McCleen, the track's press secretary, said as she stood at his side, his unofficial tour guide.

Turning to the grey haired woman in her sixties, Sam offered his boyish smile, "Yeah, it kinda does. So how long have you been working for Mr. Garner?"  
"Started this season," she replied. At his raised eyebrows she freely answered his next question before he asked it. "I know, terrible timing on my part. It's been hard trying to keep the track's reputation in tact with all the accidents." Her blue eyes turned intent and her tone was boarding on threatening as she stated, "Bruce said you promised to not do a slam campaign, to report things truthfully. There has been absolutely no proof of sabotage on any of the wrecks."

"According to whose inspections? The mechanics' here? The police's?" Sam challenged, hoping to get a reaction he could interpret from the woman.

"Both. There was a full police investigation after Troy's death instigated by Bruce himself. No one's covering up anything here Mr. Cole."

"Call me Sam. So you're telling me 6 accidents in three months, 4 of which were fatalities is all… just what? Bad luck? I think I better go grab my cross necklace and lucky horse shoe out of my car if that's true," he joked, tacking on a bitter laugh, angry that the woman would down play four people losing their lives all so the track's press wouldn't suffer. "And no threats were made between the drivers? Seems like the competition would be a little blood thirsty with NASCAR scouts coming to sit in the stands."

Her look frosting over, Katie snapped, "I reserve the right to read your article before we agree to its publication."

"So that's a yes on the tension between the drivers?" Sam jokingly goaded, but his smile was soft, earned him a sigh and a response from the press secretary.

"Course. There are eighteen drivers all wanting the same dream. But if you're implying that anyone would kill for that dream….you're way off base," Katie assured, easily conveying she believed what she was saying whole heartedly.

"Is this the first time NASCAR has been to this track?"

"I honestly don't know but I thought the other drivers mentioned that, years ago, one of the drivers almost went pro."

"Almost?" Sam pushed, sensing it might lead to a helpful bit of information.

"Yeah, but something happened. Sorry, I don't know what. You'll have to ask around, see if you can get one of the drivers to open up to you."

Sam smirked as he looked to the older woman, a challenge in his eyes. "You think they won't talk to me?"

Katie tilted her head, gave Sam her first warm smile. "You're boyish good looks won't sway them like they did me. Good luck, Sam."

Turning around and heading back to her office, Katie gave the handsome tall man free access of the track and its employees. Just like Bruce Garner had ordered her to. "Bruce, I hope you know what you're doing," she said under her breath, wondering how the track could withstand even one more ounce of bad publicity without going belly up.

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It didn't taken Sam long to determine how right Katie had been. Nearly all of the drivers resented his presence, bristled at his questions and generally tended to walk away from him before he was finished talking. And he was posing as a reporter that Garner told them to be open with in their interviews!? "Yeah, really friendly guys. Would never turn on one another just to see their dreams come true, no siree," he grumbled under his breath as he stalked for the rental car, wishing he had better results for his day's work, that he would have some meaty information to wow his brother with.

Dropping into the driver's seat and slamming the door, he sat there a moment, saw that all the signs of the morning's accident had been wiped clean from the parking lot. Like it had never happened. Sam couldn't get the brothers' tone from his head, so angry, so bitter, so many old hurts boiling under the surface….so reminiscent of his own argument with his father.

'_This is why I left in the first place.'_

"_Yeah, you left, Sam. Your brother and me, we needed you. You walked away, Sam. You walked away!"_

"_You're the one that said don't come back! You're the one that closed that door!"_

Sam shifted in his seat, had to swallow down emotions that were catching in his throat. His father might have closed the door, but he was the one who had kept it closed for four years, had been unwilling to let it crack open, to allow his father to slip inside his barriers, to let himself love his dad again. Then his chance to swing the door wide was gone, stolen away, ripped away. Now, no matter what he did, no matter how diligently he followed in his father's footsteps, or how faithfully he tried to fulfill his father's wishes, he would get no second chances to make amends, to say 'I love you Dad.'

Pulling in a deep breath, Sam started the car but knew that the last place on earth he wanted to be was in that empty motel room that mockingly contained two beds. Didn't want to be alone, knew just whose company could lighten his mood, knew just as certainly that Dean wouldn't agree to see him. There had been something in the look Dean had shot to him after the trailer accident, right before he walked away. Something that shouted '_back off_' or '_shut up'_ or pleaded '_don't_. J_ust don't_.' Was a warning shot off the bow that Sam respected his brother enough to heed. After his own flight, he knew he had no right to condemn Dean for needing some space from him…even if it hurt like heck.

Exiting the track fairgrounds, Sam turned left, deciding right then and there to take up an invitation to a bar that Darien Rook, driver of the number #9 car and the only driver who had shown him one ounce of friendship, had offered him hours ago. He found the bar just two miles down from the track, its evening crowd already settling in. As he walked into the bar, boisterous voices rang out from a corner table and Sam nearly tripped as he easily picked out Dean's laughter. He was looking that way before he could stop himself, drawn to his brother's presence …just like seemingly the rest of the bar's patrons were.

Sandwiched between Tim and a younger man, Dean was the center of attention at the table of mechanics, the other five men eagerly listening to whatever story he was recounting with a wicked smile. Forcing suddenly leaden feet forward, Sam walked toward the counter where Rook sat, waving him over. But he wasn't out of ear shot as Tim said his brother's name, pride in his tone. Couldn't help catching, from his peripheral vision, the enthusiastic response to Tim's toast as the beer glasses heartily clanked together.

Sam knew it should have made him happy to see his brother accepted, liked, that someone was recognizing, like he did, what a great guy Dean was. And certainly Dean deserved to enjoy himself, to have a night out with …friends, it seemed. But all Sam felt was a shaft of pain in his gut, like something was suddenly lost to him. Offering a forced smile to Rook, he slid into the stool beside the driver, let himself slip into easy, non- racing conversation with the blond haired thirty two year old driver.

It truly wasn't Rook's fault that Sam lost the train of their conversation, that he was worrying the label off of his beer bottle, that he was silently urging the driver to call it a night. No, it wasn't the friendly driver's fault that Sam's every sense was in tune to his brother's, that he could hear his brother's voice above the bar's din, nearly winced at Dean's laughter, the real kind, echoing against his back. But Sam had the good grace to be ashamed when he gave an enthusiastic "Goodnight" to Rook as the driver stood to leave which monstrously overshadowed his attentiveness for the last forty minutes.

Once freed of his companion, Sam swiveled minutely around in his stool, was hurt that it was harder than it should have been to catch Dean's eyes, for his brother to "sense" his gaze, even his presence in the bar. Finally, when Dean's green gaze finally landed on him, Sam jerked his chin slightly toward the bathroom. He was in no way prepared to see Dean contemplating blowing him off. Sure, he knew Dean had wanted his space, that they hadn't planned this chance meeting, but it had never occurred to him that his brother would _**refuse**_ to talk to him.

When Dean finally excused himself from his little fanclub and headed for the bathroom, relief first swamped over Sam before anger took up the next wave. Taking a slow swallow of his now warm beer, he vindictively envisioned walking out the door, standing Dean up, letting Dean know how it felt to be left him high and dry. However, as he stood up and tossed some dollar bills on the bar, he headed for the bathroom, didn't hesitate, couldn't think further than getting a chance to talk to Dean face to face. Swinging into the bathroom, he saw Dean leaning against one of the sinks, an impatient set to his jaw.

"This better be an emergency, Sam," Dean greeted, a hard edge to his voice as he pushed himself upright to face his little brother.

Unprepared for the gruff greeting, it took Sam a moment to find his reply. "Why? Am I interrupting your 'research'? Is this your new interrogation technique, Dean? Get them drunk…or is it just about you getting drunk?" condemnation slipping into his tone, even as he cursed himself for it.

"I'm not drunk!" Dean refuted, abandoning his relaxed stance. Though he had been prepared for a confrontation with Sam he suddenly felt like he had brought a knife to a gunfight.

Reacting to Dean's anger, Sam hissed, "We're working a job, Dean!" coming to stand toe to toe with Dean, not bothering to redefine Dean's levels of drunkenness.

"Back off! You're not my keeper, Sam!" Dean snarled, green eyes flaring, body taunt, not intimidated by his brother's height advantage.

"Yeah, you're right. But you're supposed to be my partner! You know, help me solve this problem before someone else dies. Remember that Dean? Four people dead!?" Sam condemned, his voice turning hard and low, into a tone he rarely used with his brother.

"I know my job, Sam!" Dean shot back, his eyes turning dark and dangerous at finding his integrity under attack now as well as his loyalty and his bravery. "I've been doing this job since I was twelve and I didn't take a four year vacation…" '_like you did_.'

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have," Sam returned with a bitter laugh, the same anger coming to life as it always did when his decision to go to college came under attack.

"I didn't have that luxury, Sam!" Dean growled, unmasked fury blazing in his features. "People's lives were at stake! Dad's life was at stake!" But at his last words, at his impulsive mention of his father, the color instantly drained from his face. '_Yeah, because having me around sure saved Dad's life, didn't it_?!' he bitterly thought, guilt searing through him when he thought of the sacrifice his father had made for him, to save him. Quickly, he looked away from Sam, locked his jaw together, refused to let it jump with his welling emotions.

Seeing Dean's reaction, knowing where his brother's thoughts had gone, Sam gently entreated, "Dean, don't, man. What Dad did…."

"I gotta go," Dean cut in, unwilling to hear his brother's well meaning insistence that it wasn't his fault that their father was dead, was in _Hell_. But as he turned to the door, his hand on the door knob, he couldn't shut out the overpowering presence of Sam, of his brother, the only family he had left, that he hadn't failed. Yet. Looking over his shoulder at Sam, he promised with a flicker of a fabricated smile, "I'll call you tomorrow and we'll compare notes, 'kay ace reporter?"

Dean was offering an olive branch and Sam readily accepted it. "OK," he quietly said with his own small, sad smile. And then Dean slipped out the door. Running his hands through his hair, Sam braced himself against the sink and hung his head. "That could have gone better," he mumbled, wishing his stomach wasn't churning so badly over the words that had spilled from them both. He coiled his hands around the porcelain sink, kept himself from stalking out of the bathroom, walking right up to the Dean's table and telling Dean that their father had made his own choice and it wasn't Dean's burden to carry.

"Yeah, that would be cool," Sam snorted bitterly, thinking of him standing there, in front of a table full of people who thought they knew the real Dean and talking about something Dean was super sensitive about. With a curse, Sam pushed himself upright, his hands leaving the sink's support and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Found himself wondering how no one could see that Dean was his brother, that they were related, noted that they had the same dark hair, the same intensity in their eyes, though they were different colors, had similar facial features….practically did a time share with their hearts and souls. He couldn't imagine any brothers closer that he and Dean were…most days. And no one could see that. "Not even me.." he softly said, ashamed that he had taken his relationship with Dean for granted, that Dean would always be there, always play big brother to his little brother, would never _choose_ to live a life separate from him.

Suddenly needing some air, he stalked out the bathroom, purposefully didn't spare a look in the direction of Dean's table, didn't stop moving until he was out of the bar, until the night sky was overhead. Bending over slightly, he dragged in air like his lungs had been too long deprived of that essential. After a moment, he straightened, began the slow progression to his rental car but he couldn't help scanning the parking lot for the Impala, wasn't sure if he was happy or sad when he located the classic car. Found it explicably hard not to walk to the car whose black paint was glimmering under the moonlight. The car was Dean's, it wasn't his. There was no logic to him suddenly wanting to slide his hand along the hood, to feel possessiveness spring in him when he imagined the other mechanics gloating over the Impala. To feel betrayed that someone else had sat shotgun tonight, had sat in _his_ seat.

Coming to a stop by his rental car, Sam couldn't take his eyes off the Impala, couldn't stop wondering who was occupying the space at his brother's side…. where he rightfully belonged.

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Dean watched Sam exit the bathroom, knew he was the cause for the dark look, the defeated air that clung to his little brother as Sam stalked for the exit. Knew the instant his brother's presence was no longer there just as surely as he knew when his brother had put one foot inside the bar.

It had been hard, not calling Sam over, not pushing out a chair for him, not welcoming his brother's laughter into the mix. But he had reminded himself brutally that he and Sam had a role to play, a cover to protect. Had come to realize that maintaining it wasn't just about pleasing Garner, not now, not since Sam had now gotten as deep into the track's inner circle as he had. There could be no going back, not when a misstep, an uncovered deception, a misplaced trust could prove fatal, had for four people already. Almost five, if he included Garner's accident in the tally. No, with a murderer of the human variety or the supernatural at work, their covers as mechanic/reporter were the only protection they had for the moment, since toting guns in his coveralls or Sammy's notebook just wasn't plausible.

That realization made his agreement to meet Sam in the men's room ridiculously stupid and pathetically soft hearted. Wishing he knew how to say "no" to Sam just once when he should, he excused himself from the table and headed to the bathroom. But as he entered the bathroom, checked to make sure it was empty, he started bracing himself for the conversation to come, for Sam's accusations all over again that he was trying to fill Dad's void, was making Garner a replacement, his friggin 'you're looking for love in all the wrong places' lecture.

With his guard up, he had greeted Sam like he was his parole officer checking up on him instead of his brother. And with Sam's accusation about his being _drunk_, not doing his _job_…it had gone down hill fast, burning everything in its path, burning them both before it left nothing between them but simmering embers.

Swiping a shot of whiskey from the center of the table as he reclaimed his seat with his co-workers, Dean enjoyed the burn and the numbness that was settling in. Honestly, he had no complaints about his present company, had found easy camaraderie among the other mechanics. They were like the guys he had hung out with in the twenty some schools he had attended growing up. Would have been his equals if life had been kinder, if his father had passed down "Winchester and Son's Garage" instead of a leather bound journal about every evil thing lurking in the shadows.

But these men, they were not his equals. They did not know the feel of a gun recoiling in their hands as they pumped silver bullets into a shapeshifter's heart. They were not familiar with the warm, slickness of their own blood dampening their clothes, of categorizing it of little consequence, with thinking that the rivets of blood running down their skin was just as bothersome as rivets of rain during a downpour. They would never have to see the look in a person's eyes right before they took their life, freed them from the evil that had claimed their body. They would never carry the scars he bore, on his body or on his soul. They would never carry the guilt of their father's soul's condemnation. Would never be forced to decide their brother's fate, to save him or, against everything they had promised themselves, end up taking his life with their own hands. No, these men would never ever become what he was…and, God help him, Dean badly envied them that.

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading! And thanks for everyone who reviewed! I'm low on energy right now so I might not reply to your reviews from last chapter but know that I really value and depend on your encouragement!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	4. Letting It Ride

Designated Driver

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry this is a short chapter this go around.

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Chapter 4: Letting It Ride

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Squinting against the sunlight, Sam could see Dean, decked out in mechanic overalls, leaning under the hood of the #16 car. Though he couldn't hear his brother's laughter from where he stood, he saw the expression clearly enough, saw Tim joining in on the laughter. Watched with something like jealously as Tim ruffled Dean's hair and Dean retaliated with a backhanded slap to the head mechanic's gut, the action garnering more laughter between them. When Derek, the younger mechanic that had sat beside Dean at the bar last night, stepped into the garage, he was instantly caught up in the merriment.

Pulling his eyes away, Sam watched the #6 car thunder past as it ate up the track. Stamping down the ache to be close enough to Dean to hear his laughter, the greedy need to be the cause of the smile on his brother's face, he reminded himself that he was waiting here to talk to the car's driver, was destined to play Sammy Cole, ace reporter for some lame racing magazine no one had heard of. Bitterly leveled the same accusation at himself that he had at Dean the night before: He had a job to do. He needed to stay sharp, keep his heads in the game.

But in truth, Sam couldn't even say with any certainty that this was _their_ type of job. Between all the drivers, the mechanics, even Bruce's brother, there were enough human suspects to fill a mug book. Then there was the fact that the EMF was useless around the track and that the previous driver killed on the track was unlikely to have the ability or desire to haunt. His body had been cremated and the man had no real attachment to the track, having been just randomly racing at various small time race tracks for the summer.

Frustrated at the lack of progress on the job and left sleepless and hurting after his confrontation with Dean in the bar, Sam had lain awake most of the night. Had spent time fantasizing about actually writing the whole investigation off as not their type of gig. Could admit in the darkness of the night that he wanted nothing more than for him and Dean to move on, to let Garner deal with his own very likely human saboteur. But he shot the notion down almost as quickly as it had come to mind. Dean would never go for that, he was too vested in this investigation, in these people. Would stay and do whatever he could to protect them against whatever threat presented itself. No, Dean was too noble to walk away when people needed him.

Rubbing his hand behind his neck, Sam felt the heat coming off the track as he came back to the present, watched as the #6 car slowed down and make its way toward pit row. It was a weird notion for Sam, to feel resentment at the very people he was trying to protect. Had felt that resentment flare hotly in him after leaving the bar, seeing Dean enjoying the mechanics' presence more than his own.

Coming forward to the stopping race car's left side, notepad in hand, press badge clearly displayed over his suit pocket, he jovially greeted the driver as he exited the car. Internally he coached himself, told himself he could do this, could smile, pretend interest, investigate his heart out, could do it and would do it because the job mattered to Dean. And his brother mattered to him, always had, always would.

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Watching as Sam worked his boyish charisma on the driver for car #6, Dean leaned back against the #16 car, took a long pull on the water bottle. He had foregone calling Sam that morning, their argument in the bar's bathroom the night before still echoing through him. But now, with a clearer head, Dean regretted his decision, wished he had called and made a truce. Wished that he had even apologized to Sam, because, according to the pounding headache he had woken up with, his little brother hadn't been so out of line saying he was getting drunk. '_Drinking on a job, arguing with Sam, walking away from him in anger. Great, I'm turning into Dad. Just super, Dean.'_ he ruefully thought.

Purposefully he shifted his look to the car being put through its paces on the track as Tim came to his side, leaned against the car's front panel too. He was opening his mouth to ask the other man how the #6 driver ranked in the standings when Tim spoke.

"So, are you up to taking this beast through its paces?" Tim invited, a wide smile on his face as he looked to his newest mechanic.

"What? The driver.." Dean stammered, wholly unprepared for the opportunity, the temptation.

"Ah Danny Kentworth doesn't know much about engines, barely knows about racing cars," Tim scoffed with a smirk, eyes sparkling as they continued to hold Dean's. "But I've seen your car, I've seen the way you handle her. And kid, I've seen the look in your eyes when those cars go around that track. You can almost taste it, can't you?"

Dean nearly blushed as he hung his head. He wasn't supposed to be so easily read…by anyone. "That obvious, huh?" Dean quietly said, turning his head to view the man he had come to classify as a friend, as someone who wouldn't exploit him, wouldn't even reprimand him for hanging greedily onto a dream should never even be harboring. Looking to the track, Dean let out a breath as he enviously watched the car maneuver around one of the track's turns like it was riding a rail. He wanted what Tim was offering to him, badly. Had wanted it the from Garner's first phone call, had _ached_ for the first time he had stood along the track, bend down and let his hands graze across the asphalt. His gaze flickered to his brother's tall frame in the pit row, was drawn there as strongly as he was to the track.

Reading the longing in the younger man's eyes which were transfixed on the race track, Tim interpreted with a smirk, "So that's a yes, right?" Not waiting for a reply, he pounded Dean on the back, turned around and called out to the other mechanics. "Alright guys. Dean's gonna take her for a spin. Let's get 'em suited up." Grabbing a helmet off the worktable, Tim tossed it to Dean, who caught it easily.

'_Sorry, Sammy_,' Dean thought as a full fledged smile turned up his lips. For the first time in a long time felt like he was doing something for himself, for no one else _but_ himself, for no one else's happiness but for his own. '_Yeah, 'cause this sure isn't going to make Sam happy,_' he knew but the thought didn't deter him. As he shucked out of the mechanic's overalls and reached for the driver's suit Tim was holding out to him, his smile was near blinding.

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"So, there has _never_ been a history of bad luck on this track before now," Sam asked, watching the driver for what he wouldn't say.

"Every track has its tragedies, sure. And some of that can be attributed to the track's level of difficulty, to the skill of the driver and the competition and yeah, just bad luck. But what's happening here…" the driver shook his head.

Seeing that the man was fighting to keep himself together, Sam surmised that one of the dead drivers had been a close friend of his. "Hey, we can talk about this later. I didn't mean to …." But his words fell away as he spotted his brother, stepping out of his overalls, a helmet in hand. His breath caught when he saw Tim holding out a driver's suit toward Dean. 'No!' he internally protested as his brother's fingers wrapped around the suit, as he saw the huge smile on Dean's face.

Before he remembered that he was in the middle of an "interview." , Sam was frantically reaching for his cell phone. Shooting a distracted look to the driver, he apologized in a rush of words, "Ah, sorry, I need to make a phone call." He walked away before the driver could even make a reply. Slipping into an unused garage where, from his vantage point, he could watch his brother, he initiated his speed dial. He didn't even give Dean a chance to offer up a greeting. "You promised," he nearly roared, his voice pitched just low enough that it would not travel across the flat open track fairgrounds.

"I did not," Dean gruffly denied, his voice low, his head bowed while he used his free hand to pull up the driver's suit zipper.

His own hand drawn into a fist, Sam fought the urge to stalk over to his bull headed brother and physically stop him, regardless of the consequences. '_Yeah, like me going toe to toe with Dean is going to end any differently than me ordering him over the phone to not be a reckless jerk._' In desperation, Sam switched his tone from one of anger to one full of beseeching. "I don't want you to do it, Dean," praying that his wishes meant something to his brother.

"Tough," Dean bit out as he clicked the phone shut and tossed it on the table where his overalls were. Zipping the suit up to his neck, he saw the question in Tim's eyes, "Sorry, jerk still owes me for a part, thinks I'm just going to wipe the slate clean."

"Yeah, I know the type," Tim agreed. Stepping forward, he slid the flap of fabric across Dean's neck and snapped it closed, gave the younger man a once over. Giving Dean's chest a pat, he prodded, a seriousness in his eyes and an earnestness in his tone. "Are you ready to do this?"

Shooting a look over Tim's shoulder, Dean couldn't see Sam but knew instinctively that his brother could see him, was out there hoping that he would fold, would crumble under his little brother's plea. But Dean was going to disappoint him because Tim was right, he could almost taste the thrill, the surge of adrenaline, the danger of going as fast as he could on the racetrack. It had been harder than he imagined, standing on the sidelines, tuning up a car for someone else, watching as the cars burned up the track...leaving him a useless spectator. He hadn't asked for this chance, but it had come his way, and he wasn't passing it by, wasn't going to relinquish this dream, not for their family duty…not even for Sam. He wanted it, like he rarely allowed himself to want anything.

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Slapping his own phone shut, Sam swore and watched with cold dread as Dean suited up. He knew a quick flare of hope when Dean excused himself only to have it blown away when his brother returned a few moments later, a swagger of confidence in his steps. Fueled by anger, Sam stalked from the empty garage, headed away from his brother's gloating, was set on leaving the track, on saying to heck with his cover today. But as the rumble of the car coming to life vibrated across the air, Sam halted, found he couldn't walk away, no matter how angry he was. This was his brother he was talking about, a brother that was putting himself, albeit knowingly and recklessly, in danger. However, it was more than that. It was his brother finally getting a shot at just a taste of his own dreams, of a life separate from hunting, separate from their family, separate even from him.

Turning around, Sam watched Dean maneuver the car onto the race track as Tim took up a position in the infield, stopwatch in hand. As he crossed behind Dean's car, it took every ounce of Sam's fortification for him to not make some contact with his brother, for him to pretend this was just some _stranger_ he was about to watch go over a 150 mph. Acknowledging the car's presence but pointedly not the driver's, he came to stand beside Tim.

Nodding his head toward Dean, he had to yell in Tim's ear to be heard over the rumble of the car's engine. "Where's the driver?"

"Not here," Tim shouted back with a cocky smile as he slid headphones on. Giving Sam an assessing look, the head mechanic retrieved another set of headphones from the box on the ground and tossed them to the reporter.

Eagerly, Sam put on the headphones, was suddenly privy to the conversation Dean and the head mechanic were already having. "Some pointers I should know about the track or are you looking for an insurance write off on the car?" Dean joked and Sam almost replied, might have if Tim wasn't already answering.

"Track goes in circles," Tim wisecracked which earned him a genuine laugh from Dean that made Sam both hurt and smile.

"Well, thanks, great mentor. Guess I'll find out things the hard way," Dean replied, as he tested his grip on the steering wheel, rolled his head from side to side as much as the confines of the helmet and car's interior allowed. "I'm ready when you are," he announced, felt his heart pounding in his chest not so unlike it did when he was on a hunt, when his adrenaline, his reflexes and his training came together, gave him the edge to survive…to win.

"Go on green, kiddo," Tim happily instructed, watching as the light still boasted red.

Struggling to see Dean amid the car's frame, Sam barely caught his brother's profile before the car bound forward as the light turned green. Fear and awe mixed in Sam as the car flew up the track like vehicle and asphalt were hardwired together. Felt his breath trap in his throat as the car took the first turn, fender inches from the wall and then the car seemed to surge forward on the straightaway, almost a blur as it covered the distance toward the next turn.

Tim's voice in his ear almost startled Sam. "I knew you were a natural, kid. Go ahead and see what she can take."

'_Crap, see what she can take!? Like he's not going fast enough already?_' screamed through Sam but he saw instantly that Dean had been holding back, had been holding the reins tightly on the beast, was now letting it have its preverbal head. The sound of Dean's voice almost made his eyes water in relief.

"Now this is the life! Whoo hoo!" Dean called out, feeling like he had waited his whole life for this moment, had been in training for it since he slid behind the Impala's wheel at the age of ten. Since he had learned, on the fly, how to do a 180, a 360, to slide into tight corners without losing speed, how to avoid whatever evil happened into his path and how to outdrive whatever human dared to pursue him and his black metal baby.

"I take it that it's running smoothly," Tim lightheartedly asked, nudging Sam, including him in on the merriment. But the reporter didn't react, didn't take his eyes off the race car.

"As silk," Dean replied, almost feeling like an adulterer, cheating on the Impala even as he couldn't peel the smile off of his face or dampen the exhilaration thrumming through him.

"Take turn four in the inside," he heard Tim say. As he made the adjustment, it felt like the car was an extension of himself, of who he was….of who he wanted to be. That somewhere between putting on the suit and pulling onto the track, the real Dean Winchester had come alive, the one that had a future, that wanted a future, who deserved a future… a future that didn't involve hunting, a future of his choosing, a future of _this_.

As the car swept down the track, hugged the infield through the turn, never veered from its path, Sam knew before Tim voiced his praise that it was a freakin' beautiful piece of driving. Felt a surge of pride that it was Dean at the helm, that it was his brother's skills on display for everyone to admire and envy.

"Oh yeah!" Tim hooted, giving Sam a pat on his chest in his excitement and pride in his new friend's skills. "Kentworth would flip out if he saw the way you can handle his car. Guy's about one race away from losing Garner's sponsorship. If Garner would get a look at you racing…"

"Don't tease man…" Dean retorted, but Sam could hear the excitement in his brother's voice, knew that the prospect of actually getting a chance to _race_ was something Dean had already been thinking about. But the next instant, his brother's voice had slipped into his grim, survivalist tone. "Ah crap!"

"What's wrong," Sam said at the same time as Tim, never knowing that his own mic wasn't activated in his headphones.

"Steering wheel's locked up and brakes are out," Dean tersely replied and from experience, Sam knew Dean was running a thousand and one scenarios through his head even as he was struggling to take back control of the car. His eyes on the car as it streaked by, Sam couldn't help but swing his eyes forward, to see what lay ahead for the unresponsive car: Turn 1. And if Dean didn't regain control of the runaway vehicle: the unforgiving wall.

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With a merciless and most likely fatal impact with the wall imminent, Dean, heart pounding in his chest, loosened his left hand from its useless grip on the steering wheel. Unzipping the suit just far enough to be able to slip his hand inside, Dean growled in annoyance as his fingers floundered a moment to find what they sought. Painfully aware that his windshield only offered him a view of the wall he was headed straight for like a runaway train. Fingers finally finding their target, he pushed his hand into the suit's inner pocket, fisted his hand around the contents.

Withdrawing his hand from his suit, Dean tossed his fistful of salt at the steering wheel and steering column. Having been forced to only maintain a one handed grip on the steering wheel, he wasn't fully prepared to have the steering fully relinquished again into his control. Found that his unbalanced grip skewed the suddenly free direction of the vehicle to the right, sent the vehicle into a closer impact radius with the wall. Slamming his left hand onto the wheel, he spun the wheel left as hard as he dared without inviting the car to end up into a roll. As he applied the now working brakes, he knew two bad outcomes were possible. Voted that, between kissing the wall or tossing his cookies and maybe losing a lung in a roll, he kind of favored the idea of a roll.

Bracing himself for the impact of the wall or to feel the car trade its traction for a trick of aerobatics, Dean was stunned to avoid both. Though he knew that if the car had sported a side mirror it would have been lost in the small space that was maintained between the vehicle and the inflexible cement wall. Even in his standards, Dean knew that it was miracle that he came out of the turn unscathed, shaken, yes, but unmistakably alive.

Beginning to tack down the engine in earnest, Dean desired to get off the ride. Because, for all of his recklessness, he wasn't suicidal, knew when to crawl away with the meager remainings of his winnings. Understood, like any seasoned gambler, that to continue to play when lady luck wasn't on your side was the quickest way to lose your bankroll.

Dean had slowed the car down to eighty mph when the engine exploded. The pressure sent the hood flipping over the car's roof, gave the flames room to lick manically at the sky and the ability to press greedy, searing hands against the windshield. Fire and smoke slipped inside the passenger side window as the carcass of the car moved only because the laws of momentum dictated it.

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading this chapter!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	5. Smoke Signals

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: This quicker than usual update is for all those who hate cliff hangers…And a million thank yous go out to every reviewer from last chapter! I appreciate your kindness!

Please note that all mistakes this chapter are my fault...I reworked some things and didn't have the heart to make my beta go over it again.

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Chapter 5: Smoke Signals

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Unprepared to have his relief morph again to terror, Sam would have shouted out his brother's name if he had had a breath in his body. Leaping over the pit wall, he desperately ran toward the burning racing car sliding across the inside grass. Felt little encouragement when the car slid to a stop without flipping because Dean wasn't crawling from the car and the flames were starting to lick along the car's roof.

Heart pounding, lungs starving, dread and fear coiled in his heart, Sam reached the car, didn't slow down, was practically diving through the driver's window. As he fisted his hands onto Dean's shoulders in the smoke filled interior, his brother's words almost didn't register.

"Seatbelt, Sam!" Dean said amid a hacking cough, looking to his brother, hoping Sam could hear him through his helmet. "Won't release!"

Letting go only of Dean's left shoulder, Sam sent his other hand digging into his pocket. Pulling his knife free and flipping it open, he ruthlessly cut through the harness that bound his brother to the burning vehicle. In the next second, he began roughly dragging Dean out the driver's window. The further he succeeded in pulling Dean from the burning car, the more of his brother's weight rested on him. Struggling under the strain, Sam slipped his hands around Dean, caught his big brother in a bear hug until Dean's legs were clear of the vehicle, until they found unsteady purchase on the infield grass.

Urgently wanting to be clear of the car in case it exploded, Sam maneuvered to Dean's right side. But he kept his arms still securely wrapped around his brother's torso, worriedly knew that Dean was incapable of standing on his own, let alone walking. Not with the violent coughs quaking through his body and not with his legs barely agreeing to hold him up.

As he practically carried Dean away from the burning vehicle, Sam cursed as he nearly lost his grip when Dean stumbled and bent over under the onslaught of a harsh, breath-stealing cough. Not wanting to hurt Dean, Sam stopped his head long pace and sank down to his knees with his brother in his grip. Steadying Dean against his chest as his brother's coughs turned into gasps for air, Sam felt panic and uselessness sear through him. Hoping to give Dean a better position to draw in a breath, he eased him forward, watched as his brother's hands braced on the ground.

When he was certain that Dean could hold himself upright, Sam, with shaky hands, slid his hands from their supportive position on Dean's chest and sent them to the task of unlatching Dean's helmet and carefully removed it. For the first time he heard his brother's deep coughs unfiltered by the helmet and he sympathetically flinched. Fearfully he gripped Dean again when he bowed forward until his head rested on the ground, the smoke still stealing almost all of his breath away.

With his one arm around Dean's back and the other bracing Dean's chest so he wouldn't collapse totally onto the ground, Sam leaned down close to Dean, said soothingly, "Hey, you'll be alright. Just take small breaths, Dean." Hoping his own panic at seeing his brother struggle for breath wasn't detectable to Dean, that Dean wouldn't meet his eyes and see the fear that was still thrumming through him like a freight train.

"We'll take it from here."

The voice surprised Sam, snagged his attention from his brother's pale, smoke streaked profile, reminded him that they weren't alone, that the world didn't consist of just him and Dean. It was surreal, watching the paramedic come to a crouch beside Dean, slip an oxygen mask on Dean's face, start taking care of _his_ brother…without his permission, without his request.

"You OK?" came another voice from Sam's other side, causing him to shoot a quick look that way to see another paramedic, studying him.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam denied, annoyed that any attention, any concern was for him when Dean was the one hurt, had almost died.

"Alright, then step clear," the 2nd paramedic ordered, concern switching to no nonsense business, his hand wrapping around Sam's bicep as if he could _pull_ him away from Dean.

"Get off me!" Sam snarled, eyes burning, fingers clenching tighter onto the fabric of Dean's racing suit. "He's my…" but a hand wrapped around his wrist, was a touch he recognized, sparked a connection that he shared with only one other soul. Swinging his look back to Dean, he saw his brother was still coughing amid the mask, had his eyes closed, head still resting on the ground. But Sam knew exactly what his brother wanted, was asking of him. There was no need for words between them.

Reluctantly Sam swallowed his words, didn't proclaim the connection he had with Dean, didn't break the promise Dean had made to Garner. But it took every ounce of his loyalty to his brother, all his strength to clutch desperately to Dean's suit for another moment and then uncoil his fingers, to release his death grip on his brother. Giving his brother's chest a gentle pat, he then started to remove his touch, but he couldn't stop himself from catching Dean's hand in his own, giving it a momentary squeeze before he pulled back, freed himself of Dean, let go.

Sitting back on his hunches, Sam watched as someone else took care of his brother. Felt that, out of a lifetime of hard things which he had endured, being unable to help Dean, having to allow someone else to help his brother always ranked as one of the hardest for him to handle.

"He's having trouble breathing," Sam supplied, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice, at the burning at the back of his throat that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation. His comment earned him a sarcastic '_no really, thanks Einstein_,' look from the 1st paramedic. Then the paramedics were pulling Dean to his feet, away from him. Raising his hand, Sam almost reached for Dean's arm, instead forced his hand to fall away. Dropping his hand to come to rest on his leg, he coiled his fingers into his own flesh until it hurt as he watched, with burning eyes, as Dean was helped into the ambulance and eased down onto the gurney. He barely registered that Tim had joined his side as the sight of his brother was stolen from him as the ambulance doors shut.

For a moment, Sam found his own breath knocked out of him. Couldn't shake the crippling feeling that came over him like it had when he had watched Dean get loaded onto the medic helicopter, get taken away from him, for forever for all Sam had known at the time. '_He's alright. Stop acting like a girl, Samatha,_' he growled to himself, purposefully used one of his brother's taunts to try and cut across his panic. But '_This job sucks Dean_!' vibrated through him as loud as a shout.

Tim's voice was almost a welcome distraction from the departing ambulance. "Seems like he'll be Ok," and there was real concern in the man's voice. "They radioed me that they thought it was just smoke inhalation." Sam nodded, couldn't quite join in the man's relief, not when it was _his brother_. "Crap, kid! The way you reacted….you a fireman on your days off?" Tim asked in incredulous wonder.

Swallowing hard, Sam forced himself to look away from the ambulance, to look, instead, up to the head mechanic of the # 16 car. '_Dean wanted to be a fireman_,' slipping into his mind even as he answered, "Some people I loved died in a fire…." surprising himself at his honesty. Climbing to his feet, he took a few moments to wipe grass from his knees, to refortify his defenses before he faced Tim again. "Guess when I saw the car on fire…" he forced a shrug he hoped looked natural, "it just felt… the same, you know."

Compassion beamed in the older man's eyes and a flickering of sadness. "Yeah. This is like freakin' instant replay for me too…except the last engine fire no one walked away from…not the driver," his voice was hoarse, told Sam that the tragedy was personal for the other man. "And not the first fireman on the scene."

Instead of making Sam feel better, relieved that things hadn't turned out worse for Dean, his desire to go to the hospital to be with Dean spiked higher. Feeling like he was about a breath away from saying, '_screw this job'_, and abandoning his asinine cover of him and Dean being strangers, Tim's next words surprisingly steadied him, reminded him that he had a purpose, that Dean had risked his life to save these people, expected Sam to be the partner he claimed he was to him and make something good come from his close call.

"I wish someone would make all of this …" Tim, hands fisted, struggled for the right word, for a label to make sense out of everything he couldn't understand. "This '_bad luck'_ stop. It should have never happened," he gritted out, angrily sweeping Dean's discarded helmet from the grass. "Not with this helmet's air filtration unit. None of this should be happening. That steering wheel was loose every run we made and the engine blowing like that…" running a hand over his mouth, the mechanic looked almost too shaken to speak for a few moments. "None of this makes sense! I would say it was a competitor sabotaging the cars if one shred of proof could be found. I mean, it can't be a coincidence that the top six drivers, the ones most likely to be picked for NASCAR have had these 'mechanical problems'."

The man's honest anguish and the new found lead had Sam turning his full attention to Tim, allowed him to shove his need to be with his brother down to a bearable level. "Wait, you're telling me the drivers that have been involved in the accidents were the most likely ones to get the NASCAR contract?"

"In my opinion, yeah. Our best driver …was killed in the third accident," Tim's voice cracked and he looked away for a moment, was wearing an expression of loss when he looked again to Sam and shook his head. "Man, that was horrible, seeing Troy…seeing a guy so _good_, so ready for the big time get killed just when his ticket was about to get called. I loved that guy like a brother," he admitted without reservations, meeting Sam's eyes, not afraid to voice his affection for a man that could no longer return the sentiment.

Sam didn't doubt Tim's words, felt the other man's emotions strike a chord within him. Swiveling his sight to the still burning #16 car, Sam felt his throat constrict as Tim's words rang through his head …_'loved that guy like a brother'_. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said, wasn't aware he said it aloud until Tim made a reply.

"Sorry, didn't mean to bring back bad memories for you," Tim apologized as he watched the boy's face lose more color, saw the shaky breath the reporter drew in when he looked back at the car the firemen were dousing with water.

Clenching his jaw, Sam nodded but didn't tear his look from the car. Couldn't fight down the need to keep telling himself that it wasn't the Impala this time, that Dean was going to be alright, wasn't slipping into a coma, wasn't going to be playing any hide and seek with a reaper.

When a new voice spoke behind him, Sam turned around to see a dirty blonde haired man in his fifties approaching them. Noticed that the man wasn't wearing any racing apparel or even anything embossed with a racing emblem on his preppy clothing as he came to a stop by Tim. "Tim, what happened? Who got hurt?"  
"Dean, my new mechanic I was telling you about. Car just….failed him," Tim replied, jaw clenching a moment, his self-reproach evident.

Having easily detected the guilt Tim was feeling at the accident even before it was evident in his words, Sam did not offer up reassurances to the other man, didn't try to ease his guilt. Couldn't when he harbored a nagging doubt that the man had been at fault, had, in some way been responsible for almost getting Dean killed.

"Pastor Pete, would you go the hospital, make sure he's OK?" Tim asked, an earnestness in his request that caught Sam by surprise.

The man, the pastor smiled, put a hand on Tim's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You know I was going to go anyway. I'll call you when I know his condition."

As the pastor began to walk away, Sam bit his lip to stop himself from calling after the man, from asking to either hitch a ride with him or demand that he get a call too. That someone have the decency to tell him about his own brother's condition. But he reminded silent, let the pastor walk away, obeyed Dean's wishes which he had conveyed with only a touch.

Turning his focus back to the #16 car, Sam saw that the flames were out, that the firemen were stepping clear of the car, leaving the burned out hull for the tow truck. Stepping forward, he ran his hands over the car's wet but still warm frame, cursed the car that had almost stolen his brother from him even as his fingers caressed the metal under his touch. Felt that part of Dean was there in the car, that the car gave him a connection to Dean, to what Dean loved. Was a link to the life Dean might have had…to the life he could _still_ have.

"He's good, isn't he?" Sam asked, voice low, hand still on the car as he sensed that Tim hadn't moved from his position behind him.

"What?" Tim replied uncertain what the reporter was asking, watching the younger man run his hands over the car like it was a memorial to something lost, to someone he had lost.

"Dean….the mechanic, he handled the car…well," Sam stammered, knew it was an understatement even as he choose his words.

"Well?!" Tim scoffed, walked slowly to stand beside the reporter, continued speaking only when the younger man turned and met his eyes. "If it had been even any _driver_ from this track in that car, we would have been planning another funeral right now. Dean, he's…" Tim stopped, clenched his jaw shut a moment as he felt again the lingering cold hand touch of fear that had surged in him as he had watched the car heading for the wall, almost go into a roll and ultimately catch on fire. He cursed himself for liking the kid so much, better than he should for his own peace of mind.

"Yeah, kid, he handled her _well_," Tim sardonically answered the reporter's initial question because that adjective didn't even begin to cover Dean's skills. Didn't in any way convey to the reporter how many drivers in the professional game could have recovered the car like Dean had. "And you can quote me on that one," Tim briskly bit out, feeling a bitterness well up in him at the thought that Dean would not get any recognition for his skills, would instead be labeled as another mechanic that had no business testing the car. "See you around, Sam," Tim said solemnly, eyes flickering from Sam to the car before he walked away. Heading back to the garage, he dreaded the call he had to make to Garner. Almost as much as he dreaded the task of gathering a group of the track's mechanics together to go over the burned out car, to try and determine, once again, what had almost caused another death on the race track.

Looking over his shoulder, Sam watched Tim leave and knew what the other man hadn't spelled out. Honestly, he didn't need to hear it from a stranger, knew it in his heart from the very start: '_Dean could do this, could race professionally, could have a life, a future_.' But Sam knew it went deeper than that, had come to see that, maybe for the first time in his life, Dean could be happy.

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When the exam curtain was ruthlessly shoved aside, Dean expected a furious but concerned Sam. He couldn't fight down the disappointment and dread that stole over him as an irate Bruce Garner stalked into the small closed off space.

"I'm not paying you to wreck race cars! And I didn't hire you so you could sue me for a disability claim! I'm not paying for this hospital bill!" Garner thundered, finger pointing at Dean as he stalked over and glowered down at the younger man lying in the hospital bed.

Dean removed the oxygen mask to make a defense but it turned only into a nearly asphyxiating cough.

Looming farther over the downed man, Garner hissed, "Thought you weren't man enough to get behind the wheel?! Imagine my confusion when Tim calls me and says you are the latest screw up to take out a ¼ million dollar car! I should sue you for the damages."

Dean sputtered, not in fear but humor, at the thought of him paying back a ¼ million dollar debt. Especially when he didn't even have enough change in his pocket right then to snag a coffee.

Interpreting the younger man's reaction as fear, Bruce gloated, "Yeah, not so cocky now that you could be facing a liability suit."

Catching movement over Garner's shoulder, Dean watched as a new visitor stepped into his 'room'. Though he had never seen the dirty blonde haired man before, when the man cleared his throat, causing Garner to turn around, Dean easily read recognition in the race track owner's face.

Feigning surprise at Bruce Garner's presence in the injured mechanic's room, the Pastor held out his hand to the other man. "Ah, Mr. Garner. It's good to see you. Missed you at last week's church service."

Caught up in another coughing fit, Dean was surprised to see Garner's demeanor turn into a school boy's shamed stance. To see Garner slip his hands into his pockets, bow his head and give a mumbled excuse.

"Yeah, sorry…family obligations came up," Garner fabricated, suddenly feeling cornered in the small confines of the curtained off area of the ER.

Smiling, the Pastor offered forgiveness. "Well better to have missed last Sunday's service then tomorrow's. It's from Revelation, about the end times."

Garner nearly stammered as he slid by the pastor, "Ah yeah, hope I can make it. Well I have a conference call…" and then he was gone, his patent leather shoes clicking quickly away on the tiled floor.

Struggling to suppress his cough, Dean looked to the Pastor in awe. Seeing the satisfied smile on the man face, Dean's awe turned to gratitude.

"If you wanted him to stay…" the Pastor began but his smile hadn't fled, was accompanied by a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

"No! Nah, think he said what he wanted to," Dean replied, voice low and gravelly. As the Pastor stepped closer to him, his eyes settled intently on the man. Couldn't quite understand why the man was there, how he had come to have a _Pastor_ visiting him, a Pastor that knew Garner.

"I'm Pastor Pete from the Smithfield race track church. Well, I call it a church, the guys call it the Tent of Repentance," the Pastor joked, as he came to stand by Dean's right side and offered his hand.

Shaking the man's hand, Dean opened his mouth but again his words were interchanged for harsh coughing.

"I hear that the oxygen mask works better if you actually use it for breathing," Pastor Pete gently reproved, nodding for Dean to take a breath from the mask he still had clutched in his hand.

Reluctantly taking the man's advice, Dean held the mask up to his face, drew in a breath of oxygen, felt the thickness in his chest ease and the spots dancing in his vision fade.

"Guys at the track were worried about you, sent me here to check up on you," the Pastor explained, the compassion in his gaze seeming sincere enough.

'_Guys_?' Dean wanted to ask, instead raised his eyebrows, wondering if Sam had been one of those guys.

"Alright, guy: Tim," the Pastor admitted with a smile. "He seems pretty attached to you already. I'm surprised …" At the flash in Dean's eyes, the Pastor laughed at the younger man's misinterpretation of his words. "Ah, no I didn't mean that I'm surprised he likes you, I mean I'm surprised he's taken you under his wing. He kind of shut down after Troy's death, wasn't letting anyone get close to him…until you showed up. Now we've hardly had a conversation that didn't include some story that involves you," The Pastor revealed with a warm smile.

Giving the Pastor a hard stare, Dean lifted the mask, was about to call the Pastor on his cock and bull story but the Pastor overrode his denial.

"Ah…a non believer," the Pastor drawled, not with anger but mirth. "Alright. If Tim hasn't been telling me all about you then how do I know you practically rebuilt your 1967 Chevy from the ground up after a car accident, that you know your way around an engine practically blind folded and Tim considers you one of the best mechanics he's worked with in all his years on the racing circuit."

"He didn't say that," Dean denied, voice rough but his incredulousness shining through.

"Yeah, actually he did. He would be here checking up on you himself if he didn't have to stay back there and perform the car inspection for the investigators," Pastor Pete explained, had easily seen the pained regret in Tim's eyes today just as easily as he had seen the man's sorrow when Troy's body was pulled from the wreckage a few weeks ago.

"I'm guessing the car's toast," Dean half asked, half surmised. Though he hung onto a thread of hope that the car was salvageable, that he had not truly cost Tim a car on the racing team he obviously cared so deeply for.

"Sorry but yeah. I've seen enough accidents lately to know if something's salvageable. You're the luckiest one…getting out alive…mostly in one piece. Well not lucky but…"

Dean cut him off, didn't want to hear that God had a plan for his life, the old 'the Big Guy wasn't done with him' speech. "Yeah, I heard about the other accidents. You visit the two drivers that survived?"

"Ah, yeah, yeah I did," and there was sorrow in the man's eyes. "Held the funerals for the other drivers too. I know this sport is dangerous but…" The Pastor swallowed, looked more a broken man than a man on a mission for God. "Sometimes I just want to walk away, slip behind a pulpit where I don't have to always talk about loss and tragedy." Offering up a small, self chastising smile, he sighed, "Sorry, not what you want to hear from me, right? I'm supposed to be all, 'this is God's will' but the truth is…It hurts, losing people you care about, no matter if its part of the grand scheme or not."

Registering the compassion in the injured man's eyes, the Pastor found a smile turning up his lips. "Tim's right about you." At Dean's confused look, the Pastor switched gears. "Well, I actually came here to make you feel better, to make sure you're OK. Tim's probably left me five messages on my cell phone wondering why I haven't called him yet with an update on your condition."

"Tell him I'm fine, will be sprung in an hour or so," Dean reassured, wanted to tack on a request for the Pastor to tell the magazine report that same report. '_Yeah, that would make sense, you passing notes to some supposed stranger._'

"I'll tell him." Steadily meeting Dean's gaze, Pastor Pete carefully asked, "Is there someone in your family I can call for you?"

At the unexpected offer, at the word "family", Dean's breath caught. The action provoked his lungs to protest, violently. Shuddering under one of the worst bouts of his coughing, he had to put all his energy into forcing air in and out of his mouth. Trapped in the struggle to breathe, he couldn't protest when the mask was slipped from his hands and placed on his mouth or dislodge the hand that gripped his forearm. He barely registered the Pastor's worried question of "Should I get a doctor?" in time to reach his hand out and snag the man's arm, to stop the Pastor from leaving the room and tracking down a doctor who would only tell him what he had been told already. That they wanted to keep him in a few days for observation, wanted to keep him on oxygen at least overnight, unknowingly wanted to stop him from going back to the track, from working the case, from having Sam's back as he worked the job. And that just wasn't happening. His big brother instincts were way more resilient than any side effects from some smoke inhalation ever could be.

"Alright, no doctors," the Pastor reassured, watched anxiously as Dean finally wrestled breath back into his lungs, was able to draw in oxygen from the mask without much of a hitch in the rhythm. Noted that his promise was easing the panic in the younger man's eyes, got his arm released from Dean's strong grip. Stepping over to the table beside the bed, Pastor Pete pulled out a note pad and pen from the drawer and looked expectantly down at Dean. "I'll call your family. I'll tell them whatever you want me to," he offered gently, certain that Dean's earlier words about getting 'sprung in an hour' were not the doctor's plans even as he sensed that the man would not want his family to know how truly serious his condition was.

Dean shook his head slowly, knew that he couldn't ask the Pastor to call Sam, not when the Pastor might realize that he was talking to the "reporter" on the track. No, he wouldn't put Sam's cover in jeopardy, because, even though he now had indisputable proof they were dealing with a spirit, he didn't want the crews on the track to learn that they had been lied to. Knew from harsh personal experience that people who were afraid were unpredictable, were always the unknown factor in any hunt, could be an asset or a liability, could serve to save him or to almost get him killed.

"No. but thanks," Dean dismissed, his voice gravely and muted by the mask, refusing to put Sam in greater danger, especially since he wasn't presently there to have Sam's back. Steadily meeting the Pastor's gaze, he almost cringed at the compassion he saw gathering in the older man's eyes. '_Crap here we go_.'

"But you have family," Pastor Pete lightly pressured, said it more as a statement than a question because he had seen the indecision moments before in the green eyes.

"Brother," Dean answered before he could think about it, could make a conscious decision on whether or not he should admit it. But he knew in his heart there was no way he would ever deny having a brother, having Sam in his life. They might be playing a con on the race track crews but that didn't mean he would ever disown Sam, that he didn't feel pride flare in him at seeing the competent, kind, strong man his brother had become, would always be.

"Personally I would want to know if my brother was in the hospital," the Pastor gently pushed, tacked on as he saw the protest in the younger man's eyes, "even if it wasn't an overnight stay." Because, though he wasn't a betting man, Pastor Pete would wager last year's church offerings that Dean wouldn't submit to staying overnight in the hospital, regardless of what his doctor had to say on the matter.

"This is nothing for Sa…_him_ to worry about," Dean corrected, felt unbalanced, vulnerably under the man's too kind gaze and good intentions. But it was too late, he suddenly wanted Sam there, badly. '_Ah, you need your wittle brother to protect you from the big bad pastor, Deany_,' he taunted himself. Removing the oxygen mask, he answered more forcefully, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince more, the Pastor or himself, "I don't need my brother to come hold my hand."

The Pastor shrugged like it was no skin off his nose but his next words belied that gesture. "Alright, but what if it was your brother who ended up in the hospital? Was the one who nearly died in a racing accident, was lying in a hospital bed, his every breath painful and surrounded only by a bunch of strangers. Wouldn't you want to know? Wouldn't you want to be there for him?"

Dean's breath evaporated, not from smoke inhalation but fear, at the thought that made him sick. Of Sam being the one here, hurting, feeling alone, being alone. He almost jerked when the Pastor laid the phone on his stomach.

"Do onto others as you would have them do onto you," the Pastor said but there was humor in his tone and in his eyes instead of a lecture. "And here's my number if you want to talk..about anything." Then he began walking away only to come to a halt, spin around and give Dean a wide smile. "If you do get "sprung" before tomorrow 10am, I hope to see you at the race track church."

"For the Hell and Brimstone sermon?" Dean replied, his tone low, bitter at the mention of Hell, of thinking of his father there, in his place.

"Nah, sermon's about David's unbreakable brotherhood with Jonathan. I just said it was about Revelations to get Garner skipping out the door," Pastor Pete confessed with a exaggerated jump of his eyebrows and a wicked smile.

"You are one sly Pastor," Dean complimented with a small laugh.

"I prefer resourceful. See you tomorrow," the Pastor bade and then he slipped between the curtains.

The Pastor's absence left Dean lying there, alone, a phone in his hand, uncertain if he should make the call or not. Sam knew he was Ok, knew he wasn't dying or anything. In the scheme of things, this was so minor an injury it hardly deemed a line in his always increasing medical chart that he kept tallying in his head. This was nothing, he was fine. And so what if he wanted to hear Sam's voice, if the Pastor's little parable, about how it could be Sam sitting here after he almost met his Maker, had him a little unnerved. Winchesters didn't cower under pressure, they shined. Nah, Sam didn't need to hear from him and he didn't need to hear from Sam. They weren't girls. They didn't need reassurances from each other, didn't need to hold each other's hands.

But he found he couldn't force himself to slide the phone from his chest, to return it to the night stand. Instead he gripped it tightly in his hand and wondered how his Dad could have made the decision to not return his phone calls for a year. How he could not return Sam's phone calls for a year. How his Dad could hear the catch in his voice when he begged him to come to Lawrence and just delete the friggin' message and not come. How he could listen to Sam say he was dying and not care enough to even pick up the phone, call to see, at least, when the funeral arrangements were being held.

It didn't make sense to Dean, the way the man could **disown** them…and then turn around and die for him. Sacrifice his soul for his life. Could tell him how proud he was of him and ask him to kill his brother in the same breath! How he could pick and choose how he showed his love for his sons, regardless of what they needed, of what they _wanted_. Could decide his oldest son's life was more valuable than his own. Could raise him and Sam to believe that actions were all they could do when words would have been enough.

Bitterly, Dean wished his father had found a way to just _talk to him_ while he was in the coma, to tell him he was loved, that he would be missed but reassure him that he and Sammy could and **would** carry on without him. That John would have just _let him go_. Wished his father would have been honest with Sam, told him that he was different, had to watch himself, had to toe an invisible line in the sand. Wondered how things would have ultimately turned out if he and Sam had been his Dad's partners instead of his subordinates, instead of pawns in a game his Dad ended up conceding in the end.

Rolling onto his side, Dean unconsciously clutched the phone to his chest, closed his eyes. He nearly choked on the smell of smoke that saturated him. It reminded him of Mom and Jessica and his father's funeral pyre. Of death and dying and defeat. Made his throat ache from crueler things than acrid smoke, made him want nothing more than to hear his brother's voice, to know he wasn't alone, that everyone else had left him but Sam was still there. To be reminded that he still had a reason to keep fighting, to draw in another breath, to clamp down on the scream that wanted to rip from him. He needed to hear Sam's voice to be reassured that there was still good in the world, still good in _his_ world.

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TBC

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See I didn't leave you with a death defying cliff hanger. I can be nice…sort of.

Thanks for reading this chapter!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	6. Rearview Regrets

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in posting! My muse went on walkabout and then I skipped off on vacation. The good news…I got to spend some time writing.

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Chapter 6: Rearview Regrets

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Letting his need to hear his brother's voice override his pride, Dean began dialing Sam's cell phone number. He was hoping Sam's concern for him would postpone the yelling part of their conversation until they were face to face. Until he had regained his emotional equilibrium enough not to cater to any demand Sam made of him.

"Uh hello," a hesitatant female voice said, causing Dean's head to come up to see a tall blonde woman in her earlier forties standing uneasily at the opening to his curtained off section of the ER. "I know you don't know me but Pastor Pete said you were injured on the Smithfield track," she explained as she stepped up to the end of his bed. Not waiting for him to confirm or deny the statement, she continued. "My husband was injured in a racing accident there too…a couple weeks ago. The Pastor was up visiting him. He's on the fourth floor…the burn unit."

Putting the phone back onto the night stand, Dean sat up against the pillows at his back and focused on the woman he realized was Karl Phillips' wife. "I heard about your husband's accident. I'm sorry."

She gave a nod of reply but Dean could see it was a tactic to remain in control of her emotions.

"I didn't realize he was still in the hospital."

"He comes in a few days a week for treatment. I thought…him being at home, that it would _help_," her voice cracked on the last word and her eyes filled with tears. "I don't know what to do and I thought…maybe you could talk to him."

Dean's eyebrows raised. He had never been _asked_ to talk to anyone, had never gotten the green light to do his whole investigative questioning on anyone. "Talk to him?" he parroted back, thrown off guard by the request and the desperation in Mrs. Phillips' eyes, especially coupled with the knowledge that Phillips had refused to see anyone from the track, except, apparently the Pastor.

"The accident," Mrs. Phillips looked away as if searching for the right description, "it changed him." Her eyes flew to his almost instantly and she stammered, "I don't mean about the burns on his face. Oh crap! If Karl heard me say that…" Dean barely moved his legs out of the way in time before the woman sat on his bed, pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped away tears that had dared to slip from her eyes. "I'm not saying this right, I'm not saying anything right. Not to Karl, not to you."

Compassion flared in Dean and he leaned forward, rested his hand on her shaking shoulder for a moment. "It's alright, I'm listening. Changed your husband how?"

Shooting Dean a watery, grateful look she continued, "He thinks he's losing his mind. He keeps telling me he …he felt something ..wrong in the car before his accident. And when I ask him to explain wrong how…he just…" She shook her head again, but the compassion in the younger man's eyes didn't fade but increased and she found herself telling him what she hadn't breathed to a single other soul. "He's very depressed and I'm afraid…he thinks he's crazy and useless and ugly and …I don't know what he'll do and if I tell the doctors my fears, they will admit him for physiological observation and that, for Karl, would be worse than dying."

"Don't do that," Dean quickly ordered, fighting down a cringe of what would happen if the poor man starting talking about cold spots, cars driving themselves..let alone ghosts. "I'll talk to him," he firmly said. Though he wasn't sure what his words would be, he knew he could allay at least some of the man's fears, could tell him that he wasn't going crazy, that his accident hadn't been caused by any fault in his driving.

But it was the other issues that Dean knew he couldn't heal: the trauma of the wreck, of a disfiguring burn, of maybe never racing again, of having his life long dream stolen by some supernatural event that the man couldn't have prepared for or fought against. "But…Mrs. Phillips, what your husband went through…it's more than just dealing with the car accident. I can tell him how my accident happened, why I think it happened but…"

"That's all I'm asking of you," Mrs. Phillips beamed at Dean, as if he were the answer to all her prayers. Pulling a business card from her pocket, she handed it to Dean. "Karl will be at home on Monday. Just call me before you come, my cell number and our home address is on my card. Thank you so much Mr…."

"Dean," Dean interjected.

"Dean," Mrs. Phillips repeated with a warm smile though her eyes still shimmered with tears as she stood up and walked out through the curtains.

Leaning heavily back against the pillow, Dean sighed, which ensued another bout of coughing. But his mind wasn't so easily distracted. '_What I am thinking?! I'm barely keeping my own crap together and now I'm going to go play therapist for some guy who might be disfigured for life, whose wife is worried he's going to off himself. No way I am going there without Sam._' Finally regaining his breath, he lay there, hand on his chest as if he could ease the tightness in it. Then he pushed the covers back, ripped the hospital ID bracelet off his wrist and sat up. The world sloshed back and forth a few moments before it righted itself.

With determination, he stood up, felt only a slight lightheadedness at the action and shuffled over to the closet, already wondering how he was going to get back to the Impala in a town that was so small it didn't have a taxi service.

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Squeezed between an ancient guy that kept mumbling about air raids and a woman rambling on about her cat in between intakes in the oxygen mask that was attached to her own personal oxygen tank, Dean wasn't sure hitching a ride with the "Nursing Home Express" van had been his most brilliant plan. "Ah, excuse me Millie," he politely interrupted the cat woman with a false smile, before he slid forward in his seat. Propping his arms on the front seat of the van, he asked of the driver, "How long until we reach the race track?"

The van driver gave him a toothy smile from the rearview mirror. "Just remember, I asked you how desperate you were for a ride," the man laughed back.

"Yeah and I'm desperate but the cat lady has been telling me the same story about the same cat for the past twenty minutes. And the old guy…well the old guy beside me…I'm a little worried he's going to go all war vet on me and strangle me with the seatbelt."

His comments only made the van driver laugh harder. "Ah, kid, you've made my day. You busy tomorrow?"

"You do this everyday?!" Dean incredulously asked, unable to imagine enduring this torture more than once a year.

"Contrary to popular belief, the elderly are constantly on the go." At Dean's raised eyebrow look of challenge, the driver clarified, "Ok, so it's mostly back and forth to the nursing home and hospital but they do wrack up the mileage."

"Mileage I know about," Dean mumbled.

"Yeah, you have that look about you," the man said, their eyes meeting in the rearview mirror. Before Dean could ask the man to explain, he answered his initial question. "You only have to hold off the war vet's attacks for another five minutes."

"That I think I can manage," Dean said as he slid back into his seat between his two traveling companions.

"I can show you my cat," the woman offered, her cataractic eyes shining as Dean gave a polite smile. "He's in my room at the nursing home."

"They allow pets at the home?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. He's no trouble anymore. He's stuffed."

The unforeseen statement sent Dean into a choking, coughing fit that bent him over and had the old lady trying to slip her oxygen mask over his mouth.

Five minutes later, the van had barely come to a complete stop before Dean stumbled out the van doors. Giving a wave and a wane smile to his traveling companions, he shut the door. Leaning in the front passenger window, he extended his hand to the driver who heartily shook it. "Man, my hat's off to you. Keep up the good work."

"Yeah and how 'bout you try to not get yourself killed racing some tinbox of a race car. Then, when you're ninety, you can have some guy like me ferrying you around," the driver said with a warm smile and a light tone.

"That's what younger brothers are for, dude," Dean said with a smile as he stepped back from the van and began walking to the track employee entrance. He wasn't prepared for the desolate feeling of the track, to look around and see no one, to have deafening silence greet him. Though he concluded that Garner had sent everyone home earlier, after his accident had been investigated and cleared up, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that the rapture had happened for the track. He fought down the urge to call out "hello" just to see if it echoed back to him.

Stalking to the Impala, he was opening the car door when he heard a race car engine come to life. Grimly he wondered if their resident ghost was taking advantage of the deserted track, was planning a joy ride. Shutting the door, he went to the Impala's trunk and pulled out his shot gun and rock salt shells. He was loading the gun even as he trotted toward the sound of the race car. Thinking briefly of calling Sam, he shot down the idea. He wanted to know first if he was truly dealing with the spirit …or just some mechanic putting in overtime on an engine.

The engine cut out as he slipped quietly into the backdoor of the garage three bays down from the #16. Shotgun still in hand, he kept low as he slipped forward past the supply area and the engine diagnostic equipment. But Bruce Garner's voice had him skittering to a stop before he broke cover. e he

"See Troy, I got her running again like I promised," Garner said, a gentleness in his tone that Dean had never heard from the man before. "And the frame, well…it took some molding and some bartering for used car parts but she's not looking bad."

Risking a glance, Dean leaned forward around the tool chest, saw Bruce running his hand along the hood of a car embossed with a number #36 on the side. He was about to make his presence known, accuse the race car owner of knowing his boy Troy was the residence ghost on track when Bruce's next words reached him.

"But the car…It's nothing without you kiddo. I'm sorry, Troy. I should have called for help after the second accident, when I knew in my gut that something was wrong, that something here felt like it did on that Vietnam hill when guys were dead and dying all around me and yet weren't ….gone. Were somehow locked there to that place, to this life instead of the next." Garner slipped to his knees, rested his head against the front panel of the car. "I let you down, kid. I stood there and watched you flip that car four times and I knew, oh I knew what had happened. That I put my **pride** before the lives of the people on this track, before your life. And it's still happening, the accidents. I've asked for help but Troy, this thing, this spirit, it just won't stop. I need it to stop, kiddo. I just need it to stop."

Slipping back behind his cover, Dean sat crouched there, his eyes closed. Suddenly he understood Garner better than he wanted to. And Dean cursed himself for not being the help the race track owner needed, for failing Garner, for adding another failure onto his own recent "track record". Quietly he made his way out of the garage, let Garner to his grief…and his regret. As he walked back across the desolate track fairgrounds to the Impala, resolve settled into Dean. "This spirit isn't taking any more lives, I'm not letting it."

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Tiredly entering his motel room, Sam sprawled out onto the closest single bed and closed his eyes, wished Dean's accident wasn't replaying in his head, over and over again. It was frustrating to learn through a fourth party report that his brother was alright, was probably going to be released that day. **He **was supposed to be at the hospital, was supposed to be the one talking to the doctor, was supposed to be the one reading between his brother's 'I'm alright' façade. And he couldn't help but wonder who exactly was deciding Dean could be released that day: the doctor or Dean?

Pulling his cell phone out, he held it above him, cursed when there was no little envelope indicating that he had missed a call. He almost dropped it when it rang. "Are you alright?" he breathlessly answered the call, his worry blatant.

"Yeah. My throat just feels like I've been smoking cigarettes for 24 hours straight," Dean's voice came over the line, almost too hoarse and low to be properly identified.

Unnerved not only by the quality of Dean's voice but by his brother's admission of discomfort, Sam sat up, clutched the phone tighter in his hand. "You still in the hospital?" he asked, because Dean sounded like he should be.

"Nah, sprang myself."

"Against doctor's orders," Sam concluded more than accused.

"It there any other way to go?"

"Where are we meeting?" Sam demanded, standing up, hand diving into his pocket to make sure the rental car keys were still there.

"Sam, we're not supposed to meet. You know, in case someone sees us together," Dean tried to come across smug but his voice wasn't up to that kind of charade.

Being able to easily detect the exhaustion in his brother's raw voice did nothing to alleviate Sam's need to see his brother, to take stock of his brother's health with his own five senses. "Forget it, Dean! We're meeting! And if you don't specify a place, I'm going to come to your motel room and I don't care if anyone from the race track sees me there."

"Alright, alright. Don't get your blood pressure up. Fine. We can meet under one condition," Dean negotiated, let his demand hang in the air until Sam made a reply.

"What's that?" Sam warily asked, knowing that he probably wasn't going to like the condition his brother was imposing. He rarely did.

"You don't say, 'I told you so.'"

Sam's free hand swept the air in frustration. "Dean! You almost died today…in a fire! This isn't a game of who is right or wrong!"

"'Kay," Dean mumbled back as if he had yielded his right to his demand instead of having won the concession.

Before Sam could make a suggestion of where to meet, a knock came at his door. "Crap, someone's here," he lowly hissed into the phone, wondering who would have tracked him down. "Stay on the line Dean!" he growled as he crossed over to the door and opened it.

Standing outside Sam's door, wearing a smug smile on his pale face, enjoying his brother's gawking expression, Dean flipped his phone closed.

"I told you so, Dean!" Sam thundered, his right hand shooting out to latch onto Dean's shoulder, yanking his brother none too gently into his room before he kicked the door shut.

Struggling to regain his balance, Dean straightened up to his full height to stand toe to toe with his little brother. "Hey, you promised to not say that!"

"Oh, I never _promised_," Sam snarled back, mimicking Dean's defense…right before he climbed into the race car that day and nearly got himself killed. "Sit down," he directed even as he shoved Dean backward to tumble onto the nearest bed.

"Dude, don't shove me!" Dean tried to growl out but his voice betrayed him with a squeak midway.

Towering over his now seated brother, Sam felt his voice rise with his emotions, "What I should do is knock your head from your shoulders. You knew I didn't want you driving on that track! But you did it anyway!"

"Tim told me to," Dean deflected with a quick smile, felt a smidgen of guilt for throwing the mechanic into the mix but this was war and in war one used all of one's resources.

But Sam snorted at that implication. "Yeah, right. 'Cause taking orders from people other than Dad has always been your strong suit."

Meeting Sam's glaring eyes head on Dean admitted, "Fine, he asked and I wanted to do it, Sam. How's that? Honest enough for you?"

"You jerk! You almost died!" Sam roared. Having known the truth before his brother spoke it did little to temper his fury, to break apart the terror that still had its claws in his heart. Seeing Dean gearing up to make a defense, Sam ruthlessly cut him off. "Don't you dare tell me danger is your middle name or that it wasn't close or any other lies! Between the steering wheel freezing, the brakes going out and the _fire_, it's against all the odds that you're even alive!"

Noting the trembling in his brother hands, recognizing the haunted look in Sam's eyes, Dean felt some of his anger dissipate, let compassion and affection for his brother soften his next words. "Sam, it was a spirit, alright. I threw salt on the steering wheel and it freed up. If anyone else test drove that car instead of me, they would have hit the wall. They would have died, Sam." Needing Sam to see that what he had done, what he had risked had meant something, had saved someone, had been all in the line of duty.

Tiredly, Sam shook his head, "So once again it's OK if you almost die…just so long as it's not someone else, some _stranger's_ life in danger."

"Sam, it's our job to protect…"

"Others but not you, right. Protect me but not yourself," Sam quietly accused.

"I took a friggin' joyride, Sam! Don't blow this into something it's not!" Dean countered heatedly, defensive now that Sam had made it personal, had incorporated a million of the issues they had between them into the argument.

"Yeah, joyride…on a _possessed_ track!"

"Kinda fitting in my line of work, Sam. Look if all you want to do is yell at me, I'm leaving," Dean tiredly said, ready to push himself off the bed but Sam stepped closer, cut off his escape route.

"No," Sam quickly pleaded, eyes shifting from anger to concern, to need. "I'm sorry, alright. But seeing you in that car, heading for a wall and then when it started on fire.." his voice cracked on the last word and his eyes purposefully shied away from Dean's.

Beginning to understand what was truly prompting his brother's anger, Dean gently apologized, "Yeah, sorry that it went that way, Sammy," hand reaching out to slap the side of Sam's leg. " I know …fire..it's…" but his words were cut off as the tickle in his throat sputtered into a painful bout of coughing that bent him over.

Quickly slipping away to the bathroom, Sam returned a moment later with a glass of water. Letting his hand come to rest on Dean's back, he held out the glass, nearly put it into his brother's hand and wrapped Dean's fingers around it. Crouching down beside Dean, Sam watched anxiously as Dean took a sip only to sputter harder. Grimacing at his brother's discomfort and his own helplessness, Sam said nothing, only drew closer to Dean, slid his hand up to massage the back of his broher's neck as Dean struggled to loosen the constriction in his lungs.

When he could finally draw in a breath, Dean rasped, "That was fun," chagrined that, for a few moments there, he had wished that the old lady with the oxygen mask had been nearby.

"Yeah, sounded like it," Sam softly said, his sympathy evidence in his tone and the look he bestowed upon his brother.

Tentatively swallowing some water, Dean nearly sighed in relief as the coolness slid down his throat, eased some of the raw tenderness the coughing had caused. Feeling Sam's eyes on him, he met Sam's gaze, saw the worry in his brother's eyes before Sam shuffled his expression, withdrew his hand from his back and sat back on his hunches.

Sitting up now that his body was no longer attempting to shove his lungs up his throat, Dean sat the empty glass on the bedside table. "So, now that we know for certain that this is one of our gigs, we have to start researching previous deaths on the track, see whose spirit is still sticking around and is pretty pissed off if 6 accidents are any indication."

"Seven," Sam corrected quietly. But at Dean's protesting look at his accident being added to the tally, Sam stood up, crossed over to the other bed, the bed that would have normally been Dean's and scooped up a stack of computer printouts. "I have been looking, Dean, and like most of the driver's have told me, the track's been pretty blest in the past twenty years. No deaths, even the serious accidents the drivers have walked away from, were back racing in a month or so. And when I looked at the track's casualty record before that…" shuffling the printouts until he found the one he wanted, he looked up at Dean. "Except for some race car owner having a heart attack, there haven't been any deaths on the track for nearly fifty years."

"Until a couple months ago. Oh, that's great," Dean groused. "So basically we got nothing."

"Yeah, seems like it."

Pushing to his feet, Dean sent Sam a warning as his brother started to step forward, hands raised as if to grab him. Waiting until Sam halted and dropped his hands, Dean said, "Well, guess we'll just have to keep doing what we're doing," starting to head for the door.

Behind Dean's back, Sam bit his lip, struggled to not ask Dean to stay awhile longer, to make up some excuse for his brother to not leave just yet. Instead he tersely charged, "This pretending to be strangers, it sucks, Dean."

With his hand reaching for the door, Dean swung around at his brother's words, surprise in his eyes, even objection. For a moment Dean almost challenged Sam's sentiment, almost reminded Sam of his love for 'method acting', almost said that he thought Sam would jump at the chance to disown him…to disown his family. But the affectionate look in Sam's eyes stopped him, shamed him, made him realize that, as much as he thought he understood his brother, sometimes he didn't know him at all.

"After this job we aren't doing it again, Dean. You got it," Sam commanded in the silence that had fallen, taking advantage of his brother's obvious perplexity at his confession. When Dean didn't react, simply stared at him as if he didn't understand his words, Sam took a step closer to Dean and forged his tone with steel, "You got it, Dean. Never again. Dean?!"

"Yeah, yeah, never again," Dean grumpily replied, waving a hand in the air as if to dismiss the notion as soon as he agreed.

There were some things worth arguing about, worth fighting for and Sam suddenly knew this point was one of them. "Promise me for real," he lowly demanded, eyes locked onto Dean's.

At his brother's tenacity, Dean sighed, "Come on, Sam. This is childish."

"And promise me you won't drive on that track again," Sam tacked on, hoping Dean couldn't see he was holding his breath as he waited for his capitulation.

Instead of replying, Dean turned around and started to open the door, was surprised when Sam's hand suddenly impacted against the door, slamming it.

"I want your word," Sam insisted as he sandwiched himself between Dean and the wall, his shoulder now resting heavily against the door.

Meeting Sam's intense gaze head on, Dean angrily denied, "Forget it, Sam!" Feeling like he was barely keeping his head above water as it was with the promise his father had exacted from him, he bitterly confessed, "I'm full up on promises and keeping my word. I'll do what I have to do to get the job done."

Recognizing that a line had been drawn between him and Dean, a line he couldn't cross and hope to keep his relationship with his brother intact, Sam relented sullenly, "Fine." Withdrawing from his brother's side, allowing Dean free access to the door, Sam waited until Dean had stepped out of the door before he spoke. "You know I've been wanting a real feel for the track myself. You know, for my _magazine article_. I think I'm going to take Rook up on his offer to let me take his car for a few laps."

Swiveling around, Dean began, "Sam…" a dark warning in his tone and glimmering in his eyes.

"Night, Dean," Sam cut him off and shut the door in his brother's face.

Hands fisted, Dean shouted through the door, "If that's the way you wanna play it, fine, Sam," before he walked to the Impala, fired up the engine and tore up the macadam as he sent the car barreling from the motel's parking lot.

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TBC

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OK there were a few brotherly moments in there. I promise more to come.

I might have another chapter up this week..of course kind words do wonders for my desire to post.

Thanks for still reading and reviewing!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	7. Heated Rivalry

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 7: Heated Rivalry

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As Sam stepped into the racing track and surveyed the morning activities, he told himself he wasn't looking for Dean, that he didn't care what his stupid, reckless, bullheaded brother was up to. '_Concentrate on the job. When the job's done we'll have to leave. Dean will have to leave.' _With that in mind, hecrossed over to join the commotion in the center of the infield where a 1950 era Chevy coupe was being unloaded from a semi truck. Casually, he asked a man in the crowd, "What's with the old car?"

When the man turned to him, Sam could see that it was registering with the track employee that he was about to talk to a reporter. For a moment, silence fell between them before the man apparently decided this information was nothing other than public knowledge. "It was owned by the last driver NASCAR ever picked from this track, Nelson Barton. Guy was headed to the big time."  
"Was?" Sam pressed, starting to feel the beginning of a break in their research.

"Yeah, he got killed in a motorcycle accident before the ink was even dry on his NASCAR contract. Poor jerk," the man said, more sneer than sympathy in his tone as he walked away.

Watching as the old Chevy was carefully placed onto the center grass, Sam couldn't help smiling. Finally they had something to go on. Before he knew it, he had his phone out but his finger hesitated over Dean's speed dial. After the previous night's confrontation, he wasn't sure of the reception he would get from Dean. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he decided to gather more information, to have a better peace offering for Dean than just some vague lead.

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Head down, Dean slipped hurriedly from the Smithfield's tent of worship. His collision with a solid shoulder had him stumbling a moment before he regained his balance. Looking up to see the man he had clipped, he found himself meeting Sam's eyes. For a moment silent shock vibrated between them.

"Hey," Sam finally managed, caught off guard by how happy he felt at the chance encounter. Found that his joy at unexpectedly getting to see Dean up close and personal overshadowed his simmering anger from the night before.

"Hey," Dean awkwardly returned, knew his face was flaming in embarrassment at having been caught in the act of attending the church service.

Shooting a look around to make sure their encounter wasn't being observed, Sam returned his observation to his brother. "You were…." but he let the question hang, knew that he really didn't want to push Dean, not on this, not when a measure of peace was between them, postponing the anger that would probably crop up again between them later.

"Research," Dean instantly returned, firmly, tacked on, "On the job."

"Right," Sam quickly accepted. "Right," nodded his head as if it were obvious.

"Well we better…" Dean stammered, sending his right hand sweeping to the right in a vague gesture of departure.

"Yeah, Ok," Sam quickly agreed, like it meant nothing to him whether they dispersed now or five hours from then. Inside, it tore him up, the idea of parting from his brother without clearing things up between them. But no matter how much he wanted, needed to talk to Dean, this wasn't the time or place, for more arguments or for apologies. Giving Dean one more steady look, hoping that his emotions weren't evident, he walked by Dean and slipped into the tent.

Surprised that Sam was actually entering the tent, Dean turned and watched his brother claim a seat on a bench before the tent flap closed, shutting him out. For an instant Dean contemplated reentering the tent, asking Sam what he thought he was doing in there..until he realized Sam would turn the tables on him, ask him that same question. Unwilling to answer that question, even to himself, Dean walked away.

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Working under the replacement #16 car, Dean jolted when a cold can of soda landed on his stomach. "Thanks Sa.." he began before he cut himself off, remembered that he wasn't at Bobby's, wasn't working to put together the Impala, that it wasn't his brother bringing him drinks, tossing sandwiches onto his legs, making sure he took the time to eat amid his obsession.

He swallowed the hurt that came over him at the knowledge that Sam wasn't his Good Samaritan this time, that when he rolled out from under the car, it wouldn't be to Sam's worried expression, would be to the scrutiny of a stranger. "Thanks," he offered to his unknown company, stilling his work until a reply was made.

"That means take a break," Tim clarified, giving a light kick to Dean's leg. He waited until the younger man rolled himself from under the car before he continued. "We've got this baby as good as it's going to get," he stated as he stood by the car, sought to read Dean's expression.

Sitting up with a grunt, Dean leaned against the car frame and opened his soda, took a healthy swig. "It's not as good as the other one," he mumbled, head down, eyes on the can in his hands, feeling a thousand times a fool for being the one, the _mechanic_, to total the primary #16 car.

Perceiving Dean's dejection, Tim consoled, "Yeah, well Kentworth couldn't get NASCAR to take notice of him if he were the only driver in the race." When Dean's posture didn't shift at his joke at Kentworth's expense, Tim declared, conviction in his voice, "Wasn't your fault, man," determined to ease Dean's misplaced guilt.

"Yeah," Dean gruffly said standing up, starting to walk to the tool chest. But in his heart he knew it was his fault. That out of all of the people on this track, he knew what he was up against, that _he_ should have been able to bring the car back in one piece. He was surprised when the older mechanic's strong hand shot out and coiled around his arm, forced him to come to a standstill. Meeting Tim's eyes, Dean raised his eyebrows, half in challenge and half in question.

"You and I both checked that car over thoroughly before you went out there. It was perfect, we both know it," Tim lowly pointed out, not relinquishing his grip on the younger man. "Same thing could be said for all the cars that hit that track and had accidents. Something's happening that's out of our control: bad luck, the whammy, something. And you walking away, basically in one piece, that's credit to your driving, Dean."

"No, it's not," Dean sharply denied and he tried to pull free of Tim's grip but the older man only stepped closer to him at his struggle.

"When I was at NASCAR, the steering wheel locked up on one of the best drivers and he got it loosened up, just like you did. And yeah, he pulled it from the wall…but the car went into a barrel roll. He panicked, over steered, turned his car into scrap metal and ended up with internal injuries. **You didn't**." Tim gave Dean a shake as he gritted out, "You think even _half _of the pro drivers have your reflexes, your level of nerve. They don't." Then he released the younger man but his eyes remained locked on Dean's.

Stunned at Tim's defense of him and compliment, Dean stood there a moment before he nodded his head, seemingly accepting the older man's words. Tim gave him a companionable pat on the cheek and a smile before he moved to the car, closed the hood and faced him again.

"You're right though, this #16 car, it's not as good as the first one. But in this team, Garner's been putting all his money into Anderson's ride."

"Because he thinks Anderson's got the best shot at a contract," Dean repeated the information Tim had already supplied to him. Felt a flash of petty jealousy that a jerk like Anderson could actually get to go pro, could do something that, in another lifetime, he would have wanted for himself, badly.

"Yup," Tim answered, his eyes on Dean, as if he was almost baiting Dean, pushing him to feel indignant enough to do something about the injustice they both sensed was possible.

Not knowing what Tim wanted from him, Dean busied himself wiping the grease from his hands. Head still bowed, he casually asked, "What about the #36 car? It seems ready to hit the track?" But his eyes came up then. He wanted to watch Tim's reaction, wanted to find some reason why the man had lied to him about Troy Nichols' car's condition.

At the mention of Nichols' car, Tim stilled, met Dean's intense gaze with confusion, hurt. "Troy's car…it's totaled. Should be resting in some junk yard."

"Looked pretty good to me last night when I saw it," Dean challenged, wanted to believe Tim hadn't lied to him, that the mechanic was in the dark about the polished, fully repaired car.

"Saw it where?" Tim intently asked, stepping closer to Dean, a need in his eyes.

Nodding his head toward the garage he had snuck into the night before, Dean answered, "Couple garage bays down from this one. Seems Garner had the heart to repair it after all."

Tim blew past Dean, was reaching in his pocket for the team garage keys as he quickly walked to the garage that had once been Nichols'. Unlocking the car garage door, he rolled it up to reveal the gleaming, pristine # 36 car. To Dean's surprise, Tim didn't enter the garage, stood at the entrance, hand coming to cover his mouth as if the car itself were a ghost.

Coming to stand at Tim's side, Dean quietly asked, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know why Garner would do it…" Tim spoke in a near whisper, eyes still transfixed on the car

"Because it's part of Troy…maybe the only part he has left. It helps to ease his grief to look at it, to fix it …even if it also hurts," Dean explained even as he wondered if he was talking about Nichols' car or the Impala. He understood only too well how memories and pain and grief and the lingering tendrils of happiness and the essence of home could be found amid the chassis of a car.

Tim simply shook his head, not in denial but agreement as he kept his eyes trained on the repaired car. "Goodness knows Troy loved this car…said it was the best woman he had in his life, 'sides his mama," he said with a drawl, apparently mimicking his deceased friend's common quotation.

Dean watched as a slow, bittersweet smile turned up Tim's lips before the mechanic slid the garage door down again, locked it. He matched Tim's stride as they both walked slowly back to their assigned garage.

Tim patted the #16 car's spoiler. "Alright, let's finish our checklist so we can get this baby out to the track. We're up for practice runs in half an hour."

Not objecting to Tim's back-to-work mode, Dean reached for the clipboard but out of the corner of his eye, he spied the vintage car sitting in the track's infield. "That the pace car for next week?"

"Yeah, but it's more than that. It's part of this track's history."

"What history?"

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Waiting for his team's turn at a practice run, Dean leaned against the #16 car, watched disinterestedly as the # 9 car pulled into the pit area. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darien Rook leaping over the pit wall, apparently wanting to take the practice run himself. But when Sam, wearing a racing suit, followed in the driver's wake, Dean felt his stomach drop to his feet. Rigidly standing up, he cursed himself for misjudging Sam's willingness to go through with his threat from the prior night.

Before Dean even knew the play he was about to make, he was moving, was determined to intercept Sam's beeline for the race car. Had only one thought running through his head: he didn't want Sam in that car, on that track. Stepping fully into Sam's path, he watched as his brother took a step back from him and purposefully didn't meet his eyes, reacted as if there was a restraining order in place between them, dissuading proximity, fully outlawing even the most accidentally of physical contact. For a moment, Dean clenched his jaw, fought down the _hurt_ until words were possible, words low and rough but audible enough, even friendly enough to fool their audience. "Hey, I didn't get a chance to thank you for saving my life yesterday." And suddenly he meant the words, the sentiments, hoped Sam knew that. He could barely breathe, his relief was so great, when he was rewarded with Sam's eye contact, was blessed with a pause in his brother's retreat as well as his advancement.

Just barely managing to keep his stranger's mask in place, Sam shook Dean's outstretched hand, fought down the wince as his brother's grip seemed intent on crushing his bones. Pulling his hand from Dean's grip, he said with an edge to his tone, "Just glad I was there," turning on a smile that was more goad than sincerity. '_Friggin' miracle I was around to save your reckless butt! We're supposed to __pretend__ to be strangers, Dean, not __be__ strangers_.'

Eyes meeting Sam's dark glare, Dean returned, "Yeah, I'm glad you were there too," meaning the words, in all their connotations. Noting the unrelenting reprimand still in his little brother's eyes, he knew he had a long way to go to get Sam's forgiveness…for what exactly he wasn't sure. For driving? For almost becoming part of the track? Or for not offering up a promise like the good soldier Sam supposedly didn't want him to be?!

Perceiving the sincerity in Dean's statement didn't mean as much as it should have to Sam, not when Dean still wasn't saying what he wanted most to hear. Putting on a golly gee smile worthy of Gomer Pyle, Sam said, "Since I'm about to take a spin around the track, I'm really hoping you don't have to return the favor." Though his words were **meant** to instill fear, Sam felt like a cold-hearted jerk when Dean paled, when he saw the affect any danger he faced vibrated through his protective older brother. And yet, part of Sam reveled in his brother's discomfort, wanted to shout '_See, this is how I feel when you're being a reckless jerk! Tears into you, doesn't it?!'_

Breath trapped in his chest, Dean felt like a plea was moments away from slipping free of his control. Instead, he let his eyes convey his emotions, to entreat Sam to have some mercy. But Sam seemed unaffected, was turning away, was going to get in the friggin' car, was going to let him stand on the sidelines, heart threatening to pound right out of his chest, leave him wondering if he had even the forethought to line his pockets with salt, to take any kind of precautions. "It's not safe.." he blurted out, stepping closer to Sam, more forcefully blocking his brother's path. His eyes flickering to his gathering audience of Rook, Tim and the young mechanic Derek, Dean knew he had to play it cool, say what he would to some _stranger_ that was _unknowingly_ facing danger. But when he again focused on Sam, Sam was mockingly reacting to his words with a look of '_what? really? Not safe_?' It made Dean want to punch him.

Discarding subtleties, as he had had to do on many a hunt, Dean ripped the veil away, disregarded Garner's 'order'. Looking to Sam but also making sure his gaze swiveled to include Tim, he emphatically declared, "I know it sounds crazy but something happened in that 16 car, something's been happening on this track and it sure its just mechanical problems." Turning his full gaze onto Sam, he implored, "Don't get in that car, man. Just…don't," and if his voice nearly broke on the last words, if they sounded pathetically like a plea, Dean couldn't be bothered to care, not when Sam's _life_ was at stake.

But it was a new angry voice that entered the fray as Danny Kentworth, driver for the #16 car, joined the gathered group. "You wreck my primary car and now you're trying to get us to believe it wasn't your fault!" he snarled in Dean's face. "Trying to sell…what, a ghost made you do it?" he accused, giving Dean's chest a shove as if in punctuation.

Stumbling back under the surprised assault, Dean strove to keep his cool, to keep his cover in place, to see Kentworth's point of view. "I'm not saying it wasn't my fault, I've just saying other things are going on here."

"Other things are going on…yeah, like you screwing up my chances to go pro," Kentworth shouted, pouncing forward to latch onto Dean's lapels only to find Dean had side stepped his advance, was skirting around him with his hands raised in supplication.

"Look, I didn't mean to screw up your hopes," Dean sincerely replied, cursing himself again for not finding a way to disentangle the ghost from the car before it went super nova. "But your secondary car it's…"

"It's a cheap mock up and you know it! Because Garner, he sure isn't going to spend any more money on better parts, not when he's been betting on Anderson this whole time. That car was my ticket!" Danny's rage stoked higher as he realized he was speaking the truth. His next lunge at Dean was uncontrolled, was about rage not about finesse, was about inflicting damage, not restoring honor.

Planting his feet, Dean calmly waited for the enraged man to enter his sphere, felt guilt at planning his defense because Kentworth had a right to his anger. But the driver never made it inside his predetermined fight radius, was body blocked, not by Sam but by Tim. Surprised at being defended by someone not family, Dean watched Tim forcefully wrestle Kentworth back a few steps and then shove him away.

"Don't do this, Danny!" Tim commanded, finger warningly pointing at the younger man's heaving chest. "You know as well as I do that it could have easily been you testing that car that day when the same things went wrong! It wasn't his fault! It was the car!"

"The car's your responsibility!" Kentworth railed back, taking a menacing step forward, anger shifting to his head mechanic.

Shoving between the two men, Dean yelled, eyes slamming into Kentworth's. "I screwed up, alright! Not him! The car went… The wheel froze and then when the engine started to blow, there were things I could have done, should have done…."

"You had no business being in that car!" Kentworth roared, hands fisting in Dean's coveralls.

Dean had no defense for that, it was exactly what Sam had told him, was still telling him. "Maybe not," he quietly admitted, realized then that Sam was beside him, felt his brother stiffen at his words. "I'm sorry, man. Truth is, I screwed up and there's nothing I can say to make it alright."

Dean's admission stole the fury from Kentworth, left the other man only with regret and a dream never realized. He slid his hands from Dean's coveralls,

Sidestepping Kentworth, Dean shot a quick look to Sam. Then, without another word, he started to walk back toward the garages.

Not riding with Dean in the ambulance to the hospital had been hard, but it was equally hard for Sam to watch Dean walk away, hurting. It was like a torture test, standing there, reading surrender in the quick glance Dean had given to him and then having to let Dean leave. Was painful, not going with Dean, not catching up to him and offering up denials to his brother's statement, even if it contradicted what he had been telling Dean the whole time, what Kentworth had told Dean: that he didn't belong in that car.

Unable to force himself to lose sight of his brother, Sam tracked Dean's progress across the pit area, fought a fierce inner battle against discarding the charade and going where he was supposed to be: with his brother. When he saw Dean pull out his phone, hope sprang in him that his phone, which was a couple of paces behind him on a tool chest, might ring, that Dean would solder together the widening seams in their bond. But his phone remained silent even as he saw Dean start to talk…to someone that wasn't him. Pushing down the reaction it stirred in him, he tried to guess who his brother had called. Rook brought his attention back to his present company.

"Please don't tell me that that guy's crazy ramblings scared you," the driver taunted, coming to stand toe to toe with Sam, though Winchester towered over him.

Not wanting to belittle Dean's warning, Sam challenged back, "Doesn't sound crazy stacked up with this track's recent casualty count. Nah…I think I'm gonna pass." As he brushed past Rook and Kentworth, he was already unzipping the racing suit, snatched his cell phone and keys from the tool chest as he passed it. Realizing then that Dean wasn't standing where he last saw him, Sam felt fear slide down his spine. Not the type of fear he felt on a hunt but the kind that went deeper, hurt worse. The fear that the connection, the safety, the essence of home that he counted on to always be there, even when he turned his back on it, would get lost, would be revoked from him. When his intense scan of the track and pit area didn't reveal Dean, Sam quickly opened his phone and called Dean. He didn't even get out a "hey" before Dean was talking, voice angry, frustrated.

"Garner won't shut the track down. Not even for a day. I told him what we're dealing with, that we've got a good lead but needed a day or two."

Sam was stumbling over Dean's last statement. Just that morning Sam had picked up a lead, _he, himself_, not Dean and now Dean was talking about a lead, was using words like "we" when it was brutally apparently to Sam that it was anything but a group effort. "**We** have a lead?" he accused with a low growl.

Ignoring Sam's tone, Dean calmly said, "Yeah, take notice to the pace car?"

"You mean Nelson Barton's ride. The one he earned a trip to NASCAR with but never took?" Sam shot back, tone caustic, hating that the investigation suddenly felt like an underhanded competition between him and Dean.

For a moment Dean made no reply. "You holding out on me?" he demanded, his own voice quiet and incredulous but no less dangerous than Sam's. Maybe more so.

"Sounds like you're the one holding back things from me," Sam snapped, unable to keep the hurt from piercing through his anger.

"I just learned about Barton _today_," Dean acidly pointed out, hand gripping the cell phone tighter, wondering if this was the pre-amble for Sam leaving again, if these were the signs he had missed every time before.

"Me too," Sam supplied tersely, anger still there, too mixed with hurt to be easily discarded.

But as the ramifications became clear to the brothers, that they were both right…and wrong, matching sighs were exchanged over the phone lines, unknowingly bringing small matching smirks to each brother's face.

"Yeah, Ok," Dean softly said, initiating the truce, rubbing a hand over his bowed head as he leaned against the side of the bleacher seats. "So you didn't take Rook up on his offer." It was offered as half question and half statement, though Dean, not having had the strength to turn his back on Sam, to leave him, not completely, had seen Sam walk away from the race car. '_Just like Dad couldn't let him go fully, had to check up on him at Stafford. Dad and I, we were always weak when it came to Sam.' _But that thought spurred darker thoughts, reminded Dean of the promise his father had exacted from him. Sam cut into his thoughts.

"And I won't take him up on his offer unless you break your promise."

Sam's ill timed use of the word 'promise' made Dean feel like that hot iron poker was again burning through him, this time into his internal organs, into his heart. "Promise?," his voice cracked vulnerably on the word that had come to be a curse to him, that lately triggered his Dad's whispered words to echo through him: '_save him or kill him, save him or kill him._'

Head tilting in confusion at the emotions he heard in his brother's tone, Sam lightly clarified, "Yeah, your promise to not drive on the track. Dean, what's wrong?" Desperately he wished he and Dean weren't talking over the phone, that they were face to face, that he could see Dean's face, was able to read his brother's expression.

"Nothing," Dean gruffly denied. "Listen, maybe you should head back to your motel, hit the internet for info on this Barton guy."

Though Sam accepted Dean's denial that anything was wrong, he wasn't willing to concede the bigger issue. "I'm not going anywhere until you promise me you won't get on that track."

"Sammy, I'm a mechanic, I have to get on the track to do my job. I have to cross the track to reach the pit area and then to get back to the garage and then to come out here and time the runs," Dean joked, purposefully misinterpreting Sam's meaning.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Sam lowly returned, dreading the upcoming battle but willing to use the weapons he had to in order to win. "I didn't drive Rook's car because you asked me not to." '_Begged me not to'_. "Because I thought you finally understood that it works both ways. That I want to keep you safe as much as you want to keep me safe. I thought you might realize how I feel when you're taking stupid risks with your life." '_Scared, desperate, angry…helpless_.' "It sucks, Dean. It really does, man," Sam admitted, though his words were breathless and quiet it made them no less daringly honest.

Struggling to not let Sam's emotions shatter his own control, Dean looked out at the track, watched as Rook took his car through the paces. He did know how it felt, standing on the side lines, watching someone that he loved recklessly endangering his life. He had hunted too long with his father to not know that feeling intimately. And Sam was right, it sucked. It just never occurred to him that, somewhere along the line, he had picked up that trait from his father, that Sam worried about him, _really_ worried, that he was putting his brother through the same torture he himself had endured with his father. "Ok," he quietly agreed.

There was a drawn in breath before Sam spoke, trying so hard to be non-pressuring that it was almost funny. "Ok what?"

"I won't drive on the track," Dean vowed, meaning it, but he couldn't shut out the pang of regret that shafted through him at the quick death of a dream that was never meant to be.

"Promise?" Sam couldn't help ask, knew he had to have this reassurance from his brother before the tension in him that was making even breathing difficult would ease.

Dean almost returned with a frustrated retort, would have if he had not detected the little brother plea in Sam's voice. Sam wanted this, needed it and it was something Dean could give him. "Yeah, Sammy I promise. I'll stick to being under the hood of the cars from here on out." Hearing Sam's sigh and knowing what would come next, Dean circumvented, "And don't thank me…just…don't."

Knowing when to accept victory quietly, Sam said, "So I'll head to the motel room and …" but Dean's "No, no, NO!" sliced across his calm. "Dean?!" But Dean's voice wasn't the next sound that captured his attention, the scream of tortured metal was. Before he could process anything else, he was running toward the source of the din, cell phone still gripped tightly in his hand, praying that Dean was safe, wasn't at ground zero.

Clearing the building, Sam saw Rook's mangled car lying on its roof on the track, fire flickering from under the car, flaring over the side and licking at the sky and smoke billowing. And for that heartbeat, between horror and his instinct to help, there was relief, relief not for himself, not for not taking the fateful drive but relief that Dean's wreck hadn't been as bad, that Dean had walked away from his. Before that relief could fade, before he shifted into savior mode, Sam caught movement out of the corner of his eye: Dean running for the car.

Witnessing Rook's loss of control of his car, Dean had dropped his cell, was running for the track before the car finished its two flips to end up on its roof. Heaping curses on himself for allowing _anyone_ to get on the track, feeling sick that it might have been Sam in the car just as easily as Rook, Dean ran for all he was worth, knew his smoke abused lungs were slowing him down but he was determined to not let his screw up cost someone their life. He was almost there, was twenty steps away when the car exploded. A shockwave of heat threw him backwards to land onto the track. The impact knocked free what little breath his weakened lungs had clung valiantly to and sent him into unconsciousness.

Following his big brother's example, Sam had started to run for the crash. But somewhere down deep, Sam wondered who he was setting out to save, Rook or Dean, didn't honestly know if his efforts were focused on rescue or protection. He stumbled when the explosion shook the ground and a diluted wave of heat bounced off him. When he regained his balance, it wasn't the burning car that clenched his heart. It was the sight of Dean… down on the ground, unmoving. Later, he wouldn't be able to recall if he yelled his brother's name or not, would only remember running madly to get to Dean.

Reaching Dean, Sam dropped down to his knees beside his prone brother, called out "Dean!" Pressing his one hand against his brother's chest, he was reassured by the heartbeat under his palm. Gently gripping Dean's jaw, he turned Dean's head so he could see the source of the blood starting to stream down from his brother's temple.

The second explosion gave off another merciless wall of heat which sent Sam sprawling forward onto Dean, who groaned at the weight of his brother's 6'4" frame falling on him. Quickly looking over his shoulder, Sam saw a part of the car's metal framework arcing through the air and seemingly heading right for them.

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading and for those encouraging reviews!

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.


	8. Fallout Repercussions

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry to those looking for chapter 9! This is only a repost of Chapter 8, which was posted briefly last Sunday but I took down because it seriously needed some revamping on the wording. Hope it's better this time around! And thanks again for your wonderful support and reviews for this story! For those waiting for chapter 9, I am hoping to have it posted in a day or two.

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Chapter 8: Fallout Repercussions

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Quickly looking over his shoulder, Sam saw a part of the car's metal framework arching into the air and seemingly heading right for them.

"Oh crap!!" Sam cursed, positive that they were truly at ground zero. Dropping down onto Dean, he slid his hands under his brother's body and urgently rolled himself and Dean a few rotations to the right. The sound of contorting metal reverberated through his chest and, even mid-motion, he felt the ground shake under him.

His momentum deserting him, Sam ended up on top of Dean, but sensing that the danger hadn't passed, he rested his forehead against Dean's, bracketed Dean's head with his arms to provide any shelter that he could. When a whish of heat passed by him that nearly singed his hair, Sam bowed over Dean further, praying that more fallout wasn't heading their way. But the sounds around him changed from destruction to voices of panic, to sirens.

Drawing back from Dean, Sam saw that his brother's green eyes were locked with his. Before he could voice his concern, Dean's hand surged forward to clutch at his shirt. Uncertain if his brother wanted him to stay close or if Dean wanted something else, Sam leaned down toward Dean.

"Off," Dean wheezed, the one word not reaching Sam even at their proximity.

"Dean! What?" Sam worriedly responded, tilting his head so his ear was by Dean's lips.

"Get…. off….of… me. Crushing…me.." Dean forced from his compressed lungs, giving Sam a weak shove on the chest more to prove his point than to move Sam.

Finally able to hear Dean's words clearly, Sam cursed his own stupidity and immediately scrambled off of his brother's already abused body. Keeling beside Dean, he stammered, "Dean, I'm so…"

"Help me up," Dean rasped, hand raised to his brother, waiting for Sam's hand to slip into his. When that didn't happen immediately, Dean, unwilling to take the time to catalogue the look on his brother's face, snapped, "Sam, now."

Responding to his brother's need as much as to his tone of voice, Sam put his hand in Dean's, slid his other hand behind Dean's neck and gently levered Dean upright. Sitting on the ground, his knees resting against Dean's legs, Sam found himself looking, not at the ablaze car, but at his brother's profile. Watched as his brother's jaw jumped and his eyes darkened as Dean watched the flames dance across the car. "Dean…" Sam gently entreated, uncertain what he would say next, just wanted to connect with his brother, to convince Dean that he had done what he could to save the other man.

At his brother's soft call, Dean, fighting through the piercing headache and pressure in his chest, pushed himself to his feet, took an unsteady step forward toward the burning car. Sam's manacle grip on his right arm stopped his forward motion. Eyes never leaving Rock, Dean instantly tried to uncoil his brother's long fingers from his flesh. Failing to free himself from his little brother's hold, Dean shifted his eyes from the burning car to Sam and growled, "Let go!"

"No," Sam stonily refuted, shaking his head. Slipping in front of Dean, he blocked his brother's path to the wreckage even as his other hand trapped Dean's left arm in its grip.

"Let me go, Sam," Dean lowly ordered menacingly, determinedly struggling to get free. But he couldn't help himself from looking over Sam's shoulder to the car, to Rook who had to still be alive, couldn't be dead. He wouldn't _allow _him to be dead. Catching Sam off guard with a brutal shove, Dean got his freedom, side stepped Sam.

All but tackling Dean from behind, Sam coiled his long arms around Dean's chest, trapped Dean in his hold, pinned his brother's arms to his side. "Dean, no!" he commanded, steel and fear in the two words. Tightening his hold on his brother's torso, he started to pull Dean backwards, further away from the wreckage, from the raging fire.

Digging his heels in, desperate to get to Rook, to save him, Dean shouted, "Let go Sam! I have to get him out!"

Unprepared to contend with his brother's unleashed strength, Sam felt Dean halt their backwards motion, knew that he was only seconds away from losing his grip on Dean. Knew just as certainly that if he didn't stop Dean, his brother would go to Rook, would dive into the flames to try and save Rook, would hurt himself, most likely kill himself trying to save a stranger. "Don't, Dean! Please don't! He's gone!" he frantically shouted, needing to reach his brother, to stop him, to keep him with him. Willing to even hurt Dean if it would keep him from getting one step closer to the fire, to a hopeless, suicidal rescue attempt, Sam constricted his hold on Dean's already weakened chest and rasped out, "He's gone and there's nothing you can do!"

Dean had been contemplating a viable next move that wouldn't hurt his brother when Sam's broken voice cut across every emotion that was raging inside of him. Stilling, chest heaving, adrenaline flaring and heart sinking, Dean saw the firefighters arrive on the scene and begin to douse the flames with water. Amid the chaos, he could hear Sam's ragged breath at his shoulder, felt his brother's chin brush his collarbone. Sam didn't let him go, kept his arms around him as they stood there together and watched someone die that they should have saved.

When the firefighters finally won the battle against the flames, Dean could see inside the car, could make out the charred remains of a man, a man that had unknowingly been dead the second he slid behind the wheel of his race car. '_And I knew that_,' Dean accused, cursing himself for not stopping Rock, for not finding some way to stop the practices until he and Sam had figured things out. He didn't need to see the fireman lean into the car, check Rook, withdraw and shake his head to the ambulance crew to know that Rook was dead but the finality of the gesture broke him from his stupor.

When Dean pushed on Sam's hands, Sam released him without protest. Freed, Dean took a step forward toward the car, found Sam's hand instantly wrapping around his shoulder, as if there were still danger to protect him from. For a minute, Dean looked at the burned out car, at the corpse and then he turned on his heel. Purposefully not meeting Sam's gaze, he started to walk away, was surprised to find a male paramedic in his path, a white gloved hand holding a sterile pad reaching for his forehead. Flinching back a step, he tried to get his mind to react. When the paramedic seemed intent on pursuing him, he tried to tell his hand to intercept the paramedic's reach. But it was Sam who reacted.

Stepping between Dean and the medic, Sam snagged the paramedic's hand mid motion with quick, bruising strength. Eyes piercing the paramedic's, he lowly stated, "He's fine," even though he knew it wasn't true. Felt almost chagrined that he was actually perpetuating the lie his brother usually offered up to _his_ concerned inquiry. '_He's not fine but I'll take care of him_,' he corrected silently.

The paramedic, apparently used to bravado, pressed, "Listen, we have to check him out for insurance purposes."

Sensing that Dean was stepping from behind him, was intending to slip away from the paramedic _and_ him, Sam briskly dismissed, "He'll sign the waiver. Later." Nearly shouldering the paramedic out of his way, Sam ran a few steps until he was at Dean's side, pacing him. Focused on Dean's profile even as they moved forward, he noted the blood running from Dean's forehead was crossing Dean's eyebrow, was making its way toward his brother's eye.

Though suspecting that he might be taking his life in his hands, Sam skipped a step or two ahead and swiveled around, right into his brother's path. Before Dean could offer up a verbal protest, Sam slid his hand up to catch Dean's jaw. "Hold still," he half growled and half pleaded, surprised when Dean obeyed. Using the sterile pad he had snatched from the paramedic's hand like the consummate pick-pocket that he was, he carefully swiped at the bloody trail, made his strokes light and yet useful as he uncovered the source of the blood. The gash was small, was almost a non-issue compared to the injuries they wracked up on a standard hunt. Except it wasn't a non-issue, not when it inflicted pain on his brother, made his strong brother look weak, vulnerable, hurt. Daring to allow his focus to flicker from the gash to his brother's eyes, Sam was braced to read anger, impatience, frustration emanating from Dean. The guilt and pain that reflected back to him made his breath catch in his throat.

Feeling as if he were laid bare to Sam, Dean gruffly knocked Sam's hold loose, mumbled a "I'm fine" in a tactic of retreat. When Sam tried to reclaim his hold on him, he easily side stepped Sam's reaching hand. Walking toward the garage, he wasn't surprised when Sam was instantly there, pacing him easily with his long legs. He could feel his brother's gaze on him…almost as strongly as he had felt the blast of heat from the exploding car. "Don't Sam," he quietly warned, not risking a look to his brother.

"Don't what, Dean?" Sam gently returned, eyes glued to his brother's face, uncertain what Dean was asking of him, what Dean wanted from him, would accept from him.

"Don't ask if I'm Ok or say we can't save everyone or…" Dean bit off his words, shook his head in the silence that fell, disgusted with himself, at his weakness, at almost babbling away like he was someone who didn't see death practically on a daily basis.

Sam looked away from Dean, knew he had to if he wanted a shot at keeping himself locked down, to not react to the clear knowledge that Dean wasn't alright…and it had nothing to do with head-wounds or smoke inhalation. He nodded his head, though he doubted Dean saw the gesture.

In silence they walked off the track, Dean heading for the Impala, Sam simply following Dean. Bitterly, Sam forsook the painful lie that he had been perpetuating the last couple of days on the track, that he and Dean were strangers, that his life wasn't intricately and irreversibly tied to Dean's. He was unprepared to have his brother's arm flung out in front of him, forcibly cutting off his forward motion, didn't understand the action until a Dodge Viper swung into their path and lurched to a halt.

Leaving the car door open in his wake, Garner barely stopped in front of the older Winchester instead of turning his motion into an attack. His clenched hands and the rage and despair in his eyes warned that violence could yet be but a heartbeat away. "Rook's dead! They just called me on my way over here and he's dead!"

"I'm sorry…" Dean began earnestly, guiltily, but Garner curled his hands in the front of Dean's coveralls, jerked the hunter closer to him.

"Sorry!? You're supposed to make sure no one else got _hurt! _Now Rook's **dead!! **And you're _sorry?!" _Garner snarled, breath hitting Dean in the face before he pushed Dean backwards, out of his grip. His despair spawning hatred he venomously accused, "This is your fault. He's dead because of you," his eyes boring into Dean's.

Dean did not refute Garner's accusation, couldn't. Not when it was the truth. "I know," he quietly confessed, remorse drowning the two words, dulling his eyes.

Stunned that Dean accepted the blame without protest, Sam stood there, uncertain what words to say or who to say them to. Anger and worry vied for supremacy within him.

"You know…" Garner repeated Dean's words with a hiss. "You know?!" he said more forcefully, Dean's submission spiking his rage.

Garner telegraphed his impending attack openly, so it was in utter disbelief that Sam watched as the race track owner's fist impacted with Dean's jaw, sent his brother's head snapping right. Drawing courage from his "victory", Garner stepped forward to land another blow.

Recognizing that Dean hadn't raised a hand to defend himself, worriedly realizing that Dean would accept whatever punishment Garner dished out to him, Sam intervened. Ruthlessly he lashed out at Garner with his own right cross, watched in grim pleasure as Garner dropped to the pavement. Doggedly he advanced forward, his fist coiled and ready to be unleashed on the downed man, the man who thought to lay blame on Dean, to hurt Dean, with words and fists.

Stepping in front of Sam, blocking his path, Dean braced his hands against his brother's chest, locked his eyes with Sam's. "Sam," he warned and yet appealed. "Don't."

Furious, Sam insisted, "It's his fault, Dean," hurt spearing through him at Dean's blatant acceptance of that erroneous blame. Eyes shifting over Dean's shoulder to pierce Garner, he snarled, "It's your fault! You suspected what was going on! And today, Dean called you, told you to close down the track. You didn't! Rook's death is…"

Dean growled, "Shut up Sam!" Gripping Sam's shirt, he jerked Sam, causing his brother's attention, his eyes to snap back to him.

Climbing to his feet, Garner pointed to the Winchesters, coldly said, "You're fired and I'm not paying you one cent," as if his money mattered, as if they were there at his beck and call solely, as if preventing deaths was only a worthy pursuit if the money was good enough. "Get off my track," were his parting words as he stalked by them, headed toward the travesty on the track, on _his_ track.

"Why did you let him hit you, Dean?!" Sam heatedly demanded. "Why did you let him dump the blame on you?! You called him, you told him to shut down the track! He wouldn't do it, his greed wouldn't let him do it!" Sam shouted back, hands gesturing to the disappearing Garner then back to his brother.

"Sam, someone he knew just got killed," Dean forcible returned. "The fifth person to die on property that _he owns_."

For a moment, Sam hated his brother's compassion, his logic, had to look away to rearrange his own emotions.

Seeing that his words had an effect on Sam, Dean softened his tone, released his white knuckled grip on Sam's shirt. "He's hurting Sam, lashing out. And he's got a right to aim that anger at me." When Sam's gaze shifted to him, a protest visibly written in his brother's eyes, Dean spoke before Sam could. "Sam he hired us to stop this and I promised him that no one else would get hurt."

"He hired us, Dean. **Us**," Sam insisted, eyes lancing into Dean's, unwilling to concede to anything short than full out victory on this debate. "And any promise you make is a promise I make. So if you want to take on the blame, then whatever you shoulder, some of that goes to me, Dean. Half of it. But not all of the blame Dean, not when you called Garner, asked him to shut down the track, not when Garner _knew_ that something supernatural was going on, knew it enough to call us and yet he kept the track open non-stop."

Seeing that Dean's guilt wasn't swayed by his words, Sam stopped talking, looked away a moment. When he resettled his look upon his brother, there was forged steel in his gaze. "You wanted to let him vent some of his anger and his sorrow out on you, if that made you feel better, fine, you did that. But it ends there. If he makes another move against you, you put him in his place or I swear I will, Dean," Sam vowed, menace vibrating through his tone, blazing unchecked in his eyes. He would not idly stand by while _anyone_ hurt his brother.

Having rarely seen the look reflected in his brother's eyes, Dean knew that Sam was 100 serious, would follow through on his threat without any of his usual compassionate tendencies hampering him. But instead of reassuring Sam that one freebie shot was all Garner was allotted, Dean said, "Let's get out of here before Garner has us arrested for trespassing. I'll clear my stuff out of the motel room and then we can do some research, figure out where Barton's buried." Patting Sam's chest, Dean started to walk toward the Impala.

Sam quickly matched Dean's stride. With his brother at his side, with them heading to the Impala, **together**, Sam felt contentment wash over him. But remembering that Rook, a man he had inadvertently sworn to protect, who had been a good guy, a kind person, had just lost his life, he felt guilty for being happy, for reveling in his brother's presence. Especially when the younger brothers that Rook had spoke so fondly of would never have their older brother with them again, would have a gaping whole in them that no one could fill, ever. At that thought, Sam had to swallow hard to dislodge the emotions in his throat.

Sinking into the passenger seat of the Impala for the first time in three days that felt like a year, Sam shot Dean a look, saw the muscle jump in his brother's jaw as Dean watched the black plume of smoke rise above the garages. Not knowing how to ease his brother's guilt, he remained silent when Dean turned the car on and left the race track behind them.

But Sam found that the horrific, metallic scream of the racing car's buckling metal kept ringing relentlessly through his head. And he knew that sound, intimately. Had heard it every night for a month after his family's accident with the semi truck, had heard it every time he shut his eyes, tried to find sleep. And he had wanted to drown it out any way he could, had wanted to scream, to shout, had covered his ears with his hands, had growled to himself again and again, "Stop! Stop! Stop!!" But only one thing had ever dispelled it: Dean's voice coming from the motel's other bed amid the darkness, asking simply '_You ok_?'

"You OK?" came that same low, concerned voice now from the other side of the car.

Turning to Dean, Sam saw the worry in his brother's eyes, worry for him. '_I am if you are,_' he wanted to counter, knew brutally just how true the words were, was just starting to grasp just how linked he was to his brother. "Yeah," he gave in answer but Dean's eyes held his, wanted more, sought the truth. "I know it makes me a bastard…but I'm glad it wasn't you in that car today, Dean," he confessed, voice quiet but convicted even as he wondered if Dean would think his heartless thought meant he was one step along the path toward his dark destiny.

At Sam's words, Dean swallowed, looked to the road ahead but his hands tightened on the Impala's steering wheel. It had been too close today, not for him but for Sam. If Sam had gotten into that car…. "I'm glad it wasn't you, Sam," he admitted, voice low, gravely and then his eyes met his brothers and he gave a grim smile. "Guess I'm a bastard, too."

Sam's smile was weak but 100 real. "I'm Ok with that," he said, meeting Dean's quick glance steadily. Watching as something shifted in Dean, as some measure of the tension lifted from his brother's posture, Sam felt that they were going to be OK. That as long as whatever weight they shouldered, whatever dangers they faced, if they did it together, they would _both_ be alright.

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TBC

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Ah, the boys are back together again. See, I'm not totally heartless after all.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	9. Classic Memories

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: As promised, here's chapter 9.

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Chapter 9: Classic Memories

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The word "cremated" mocked them on the computer screen.

Surging from the kitchen chair in Sam's motel room, Dean bitterly exclaimed, "Barton was cremated, just great. So we're no further than we were before." Pouring himself another cup of coffee, he leaned against the counter, shook his head. "But it's _him_, Sam. You know, he's pissed that someone else is going to get to go pro when he didn't."

"But he can't be tied to his car, it just arrived at the track and before that it was in some car museum two towns over," Sam supplied, turning in his seat to look at Dean.

"Well, he's clinging to _something_ at the track. Which, hey, there's only a whole friggin' fairgrounds to scour looking for ..guess what? We don't know." Dean ran his hand through his short hair then decisively slammed his coffee mug unto the counter and began stalking for the door.

"Whoa, whoa, where are you going?" Sam called, coming out of his chair as Dean stopped at the door.

"I can't just sit in here, staring at the walls, Sam. I have to do something," Dean confessed, eyes meeting Sam's, needing him to understand that this had become personal for him.

"Alright, I'm with you Dean, but the libraries and the newspapers are closed…it's Sunday," Sam gently pointed out, treading lightly even as he made sure Dean knew this was going to be a united effect from here on out.

Dean scowled and dropped his eyes to the ground but a moment later, when his head came back up, Sam knew by the wide smile on Dean's lips that his brother had had a eureka moment. "What? You think of something?" Sam asked, feeling his own hope lift.

"It's visiting hours, Sammy," Dean merrily announced, enjoyed the confused tilt to Sam's head. "I know a place that's open on Sundays, has the best historians around and I bet I can even hook you up with a date," he said, eyebrows bouncing at the last taunt. "Come on, Sammy," and then he slipped out the door.

Without hesitation, Sam began to follow his brother.

"Coffee maker, laptop, Sammy," Dean singsonged from outside.

Grumbling at his brother's smugness, Sam spun around, stalked back to the coffeemaker, clicked it off and hit the power button on the laptop. Hearing the Impala's engine roar to life, he used his long legs to trot out of the room.

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Sam felt a surge of pride at his brother's intelligence as he climbed out of the Impala. He looked to Dean with a wide smile and was rewarded with one of his brother's gloating smirks. "Not bad, Dean. Not bad," he complimented, as they stood in front of the Smithfield Nursing Home.

"I have my moments," Dean returned as they walked toward the entrance, side by side.

"So how are we going to decide who to interview?"

"I'll ask one of the nurses. I'm sure they've heard each patient's stories a thousand times over." Feeling Sam's appraising look, Dean turned to Sam. "What?"

"Since when did you become an expert on the happenings at a nursing home?"

"Oh, Sammy, the knowledge I have would blow your little brain," Dean boasted, a beaming smile on his lips.

Sam laughed, glad to see Dean's smile, to see the guilt and sorrow replaced by the light his brother's eyes. "Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that."

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Hours later, slipping back into the Impala's sanctuary, Dean leaned back against the seat, groaned, "Crap that was **torture**!"

From the passenger seat, Sam couldn't help chuckling. "Man, you pretending to be that red headed woman's long lost lover…that was priceless dude! And when she pulled you in for the lip lock…"

"Dude, shut up," Dean growled, rubbing his hand over his mouth in disgust. "Who knew the old lady had the strength of a shtriga. I think we should have dumped holy water on her Sam, or slipped a silver necklace over her head. _Something_."

Sam only laughed harder at Dean's discomfort. "And you thought I was going to get a date out of this."

"Hey, that lady in the wheelchair with the doll collection, she was ready to let you meet her family."

Sam shook his head and looked to Dean with brotherly pride. "It was a good idea, Dean. The two guys and your shtriga, they gave us some more information on Barton."

Sitting up straight in his seat and turning to face Sam, Dean got back to the business at hand. "Yeah, so Nelson Barton got the nod to go pro but the night before he was leaving for the big times, he decided to cowboy around, wanted to take his motorcycle a few laps around the Smithfield track at night."

"But he wrecked the bike on the track, it exploded and killed him," Sam picked up the story.

"Bye bye fame and fortune," Dean said, shaking his head at Barton's foolish stunt that had cost him his life. "So he's jealous, can't stand to see someone else from the track get what he thinks should have been his."

"But what I don't get, the first accident, it wasn't the best driver. According to everyone I talked to, Troy Nichols was the favorite NASCAR pick but his accident was the third one on the track. If it were me, he would have been the first guy I took out of the picture," Sam said.

"Maybe he tried to kill Nichols but it took him awhile to get the job done. Doesn't matter whether he picked it by a lottery or 'cause someone pissed him off, we need to stop him Sam."

"I know that Dean, but if we understand why he made the choices he did, we can find his weak spot, because, apparently burning his bones isn't going to get the job done."

"Some of his remains may still be in the track," Dean theorized.

"And if that's true, what are we suppose to do, torch the whole track, Dean?" Sam returned, a challenge in his tone.

"If we have to," Dean firmly stated, starting the Impala. "But I think I might know someone who can tell us the exact section of the racetrack where Barton wrecked his motorcycle. Trouble is, we can't talk to him until tomorrow."

"Who?" Sam demanded, feeling again like Dean had been holding out on him.

"Karl Phillips," Dean supplied, pulling the Impala onto the road, he gave Sam a quick glance, saw the clench in his brother's jaw. "Tim said that he is the resident track historian."

"Thought he wasn't seeing anyone from the track," Sam coldly challenged, an accusation lurking in his words.

"I got an invitation," Dean quietly said, feeling more and more uneasy about his promise to Phillips' wife. "From his wife." He shot Sam a quick, almost pleading look. "She visited me in the hospital, wanted me to talk to her husband." He gave a bitter smile, "He sensed something in the car before his accident and he thinks he's going crazy. And that, on top of the burns on his face…well," Dean shrugged couldn't quite verbalize it. It cut too close to the bone for him, that hopelessness.

Sensing a change in Dean's emotions, a vulnerability, Sam just nodded his head when Dean looked at him. The quietness in Dean's voice, the entreaty in his next words made Sam's throat hurt.

"I don't want to talk to him alone, Sam. I wasn't going to…" Dean swallowed, looked to Sam, "not without you, man. I know we've been…" Dean swung his attention to the road again. "Well, it's been feeling like we're hunting solo and I've…"

When Dean remained silent for a few heartbeats, Sam gently prodded, "What Dean?"

"I've done enough of that, Sam. Too much," Dean confessed, a rawness in his voice that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation and everything to do with hurt that went too deep.

"I know," Sam acknowledged, his own voice raw. Swallowing, he forced a lightness into his next words. "And if you remember correctly I already exacted a promise from you that we're not _ever _pretending to be strangers again. I'm holding you to that, Dean."

"Nag, nag, nag," Dean grumbled but he shot a sideways look to Sam that held mirth and gratitude.

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The lights were out and silence blanketed Sam's motel room but neither brother could find sleep, both lay awake, knowing instinctively that their brother wasn't asleep either.

Dean shifted in the bed, rolled onto his side, faced Sam's bed, hated that every time he closed his eyes he saw Rook's car on fire, felt his throat close up as he thought how very close it had come to being Sam in that car, being dead. Studying Sam's face in the moonlight slipping into the room, he quietly said, "Thanks Sam."

Eyes flying open, Sam met Dean's eyes across the small expansion between their beds. "For what?"

"For not getting into Rook's car," Dean unabashedly clarified.

Sam could see the fear and gratitude in Dean's eyes, heard those emotions in his brother's words. "Passing on driving Rook's car, I did it for you, Dean," Sam revealed, wanted Dean to know, that though he had made some wrong decisions lately, had left when he should have stayed, his loyalty to him was unshakeable.

"I know," Dean lowly returned.

Silence fell again and Sam couldn't keep the words in any longer. "I know you wanted to save Rook…"

At Sam's words, Dean sighed, flipped the covers back and sat up, ready to do whatever he could to cut off the conversation. But Sam matched his actions, was right there, coming to his feet when Dean did, his action leaving the brothers standing face to face in the dark motel room.

"Dean, you weren't willing to let me go back into that burning house in Salvation. Well, I wasn't willing to let you kill yourself trying to save someone that couldn't be saved." When Dean made to walk away, Sam gripped his shoulders, gave him a shake to earn his eye contact. "You warned Rook, Dean. As if seven accidents weren't warning enough for him. He. Made. His. Own. Decision, Dean!"  
"But Sam I _knew_…." Dean protested, his voice choked.

"That it was dangerous? That he was risking his life climbing into that car? Dean, he already knew that. Racing is dangerous, he knew that and you telling him that…that would be like someone telling us _our_ job is dangerous."

"But we know what we're getting into!" Dean growled back.

"We do?!" Sam challenged with a bitter laugh.

"Most of the time," Dean defended but at Sam's skeptical look he amended, "Alright, some of the time."

Tightening his grip on his brother, desperate to ease the guilt weighing Dean down, Sam quietly stressed, "You did what you could do. You told him what he was up against."

"I should have stopped him…" Dean stammered, a thousand would-have and could-have scenarios running through his head.

"Yeah, and what about the next driver? And the next? And the next?! Dean, they all think their dreams are about to come true. Nothing you would have done would have stopped every driver from going on the track. Nothing," Sam insisted, eyes piercing Dean's, praying his brother would accept his words, realize that they were the truth.

Dean stilled and then he nodded his head slightly, knew only too well the exhilaration of reaching for a dream, the recklessness, the blindness that came from that ambition. His own willingness to disregard even the good advice and concerned requests of a brother whose only objective was to keep him safe.

Reading his brother's acceptance, knowing that Dean wasn't going anywhere, Sam slowly released his hold and watched as Dean sunk down onto his bed. Sam claimed a seat on his own bed, sat there and met Dean's gaze.

"Sorry that I got blinded by that too, chasing a dream," Dean said quietly, his eyes conveying the sincerely of his apology as they met Sam's. But almost instantly, Dean looked to the floor, didn't want to read Sam's response. Running his hand over his head, he snorted scornfully, "And this was going to be such a cherry gig."

"Kentworth was wrong…I was wrong," Sam announced, continued only when Dean's head came up, when Dean's eyes met his in confusion. "You belonged in that race car, Dean." Sam smiled when he saw surprise register in his brother's face. "Man, the way you handled her…" he praised in awe. But an instant later, he was unable to hold back his smile as he taunted, "Does the Impala know you've been stepping out on her?"

"Ah shut up," Dean groused, giving Sam a shove on his chest that had the younger man toppling back onto his bed. "Go to sleep, Sam," he ordered, crawling back under his covers, watched as Sam followed suit.

"I mean, you made me watch the movie 'Christine' when I was little and I think I see the same jealous tendencies in the Impala." When a pillow whacked him in the face, Sam laughed out "Ow".

"You need therapy…" Dean grumbled, turning his back on Sam to hide the smile on his face.

"That's why I hang around with you…once they see you in action, I look sane," Sam countered.

"Ha ha ha. Next time I get hungry for tomatoes I'll get you a stand up comedian gig, Sammy."

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As Mrs. Phillips ushered the brothers into her living room, Dean noted the racing pictures, mementoes and trophies that decorated the small but welcoming home and shot a look to Sam. Sam wore the same grim expression Dean felt inside. Racing was Karl Phillips' _life_, as much a part of who he was as hunting was to Dean. Claiming seats beside each other on the couch, they remained silent as Mrs. Phillips went to get her husband.

Sam could feel the tension wafting off of Dean, knew that Dean took this part of their job, the 'consoling innocent people' element, just as seriously as he did the 'vanquishing evil' part. Though Dean would deny that instantly, would say Sammy was the softie in the family. A small smile twisted up Sam's lips. He could live with that mantle if it made Dean feel better, less vulnerable. He would bear just about anything if it meant he was around to hear Dean introduce him like he had moments ago to Mrs. Phillips. "_This is my brother, Sam_."

Hearing raised voices from the other room, Dean cringed.

"I told you I didn't want to see anyone from the track and I meant it!"

"Karl, he had an accident too. Maybe he knows something, can tell you he felt…"

"What? That he's as insane as I am, that he's _seeing_ things too?!"

Hearing the hurt in the man's voice, the break in it had Dean standing, heading toward the couple, determined that this man wouldn't have to think so little of himself anymore. Dean could feel Sam at his heels, knew that his brother had his back, would be there with him, _for_ him.

With slow, measured steps, Dean and Sam entered the kitchen where Karl and his wife sat at the table. Their sudden, unannounced presence startled them both. Karl stood up, but it was a slow ascent and Dean could see the white knuckled grip he maintained on the chair to get the action completed.

"Get out of my house! Now!" Karl roared, turning fully to Dean, revealing the burn on his face that started at his temple and went mid way down his cheek.

The burn wasn't as bad as Dean had feared. It would draw attention, yes. Would it draw disgust? No. But it would garner pity, sympathy and maybe that was worse. "Something was in the car with me when I wrecked, same thing that was in your car," Dean stated bluntly, knew how to handle only that harm to the man, didn't know how to handle the burn, the death of a dream. His statement had Karl stilling, had his wife coming to her feet, looking at Dean like…like she had made a horrible mistake inviting this lunatic into her home.

Raising his hand, Dean continued, "I know, I know. It sounds crazy but there's a ghost at the track, causing the accidents."

Karl's face crumbled, not in acceptance but further devastation and he turned to his wife. "You hire this guy, Lilly? You think if I thought there was a ghost in the car I would think, '_Wow, I'm not insane after all_!'"

Lilly opened her mouth to stammer out a denial but Sam spoke first.

"There was a coldness in the car, the kind that made your bones ache, right?" Sam gently asked, stated, eyes on Karl. "And you felt like you weren't alone."

"Please leave," Lilly begged, heading for Dean, her eyes filling with tears because, inconceivably, she had made things worse, had unknowingly welcomed a kook into her house.

But Dean's eyes were on Karl, saw the man react almost imperceptibly to Sam's words. "You know that car better than anyone else, Karl," Dean insisted. "You know the feel of it, the smell of it, could describe every detail from memory. Trust that, trust what you know." Karl's eyes met his and Dean knew he was right. And maybe that was what was breaking Karl down so hard and fast: Instability where they had only ever been stability. Doubt, _fear_ where they had always been trust, faith… in his own skills, in knowing the track better than the way home to his house, and in something as strange as a _car_. "And it wasn't the same, the day of your accident, was it?" Dean pressed, because he valued trust, faith but he understood doubt and fear even better.

Karl stared at Dean, at Sam and then he shook his head marginally, brokenly said, "No." It caused Lilly to turn around, to go to him, slip her arms around his waist, maybe to comfort the insane guy, maybe in a show of trust.

"Same thing happened in my car. When the steering wheel froze up and the brakes failed. And then the engine just caught on fire. None of that is normal and you and I both know it. And how do you explain all the accidents on the track? Bad karma?!" He turned his look to Lilly Phillips, "You wouldn't have asked me here if you believed that your husband's accident was his fault, if you didn't think something else was going on at the track. You believe in Karl, in his skill as a driver, you have _faith_ in him, right?"

As a tear streamed down Lilly's face, she nodded, turned her face up to Karl's gaze. "I believe in you, Karl. I always have. And this," she softly said, her hands lightly caressing the burn on his face, "it doesn't change that, doesn't lessen my love for you, my faith in you."

Sam shot Dean a look, felt suddenly like intruders on the tender scene.

Gently clasping his wife's hand, Karl gave Lilly a tender kiss before he raised his eyes to the Winchesters. "Alright, say I believe you. What can we do to get that thing off my track?"

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"Have you ever heard of Nelson Barton?" Sam asked, as he and Dean were once again seated on the Phillips' living room couch, his gaze meeting Karl Phillips as the foursome enjoyed coffee like they were old friends now.

Karl jolted. "You think the ghost …that it's him?"

It was Dean who made a reply. "He's our best candidate. He died before being able to go professional in a nasty motorcycle accident. Seems to me he wouldn't be too happy to see other guys from the track getting what he believes is rightfully his."

"They have motivates…get jealous ..these…ghosts?" Lilly stammered, fighting down a chill, was reassured when Karl put his hand on her leg.

"Yes, they have emotions that are amplified, and they act on those emotions, sometimes violently. They react to them when most humans would have the restraint, the moral code not to," Sam broke into his college professor mode. Feeling Dean smirking at him, he barely restrained himself from backhanding Dean in the gut, offered instead a glare that only made Dean's eyes shine brighter with mirth.

"So Nelson Barton's …_spirit_ is still on the track and he killed Troy and the other drivers, wrecked me because we might get a NASCAR contract, get the dream he once earned but never got to fulfill," Karl said, more in statement than question now.

"That's what Sam and I believe," Dean said, meeting Karl's eyes unflinchingly. "And we are going to stop him, send him to the hereafter but we were hoping you could give us some information."

"I'll help any way I can," Karl firmly returned, bitterness and strength replacing his fear and regret.

"Do you know where Nelson wrecked his bike?" Sam asked, holding his breathing, hoping that Karl was the track historian Dean hoped he was.

"Sure, on the track, fourth corner. They say they could see the billowing smoke from downtown," Karl easily supplied, watched as smiles turned up on both of the brothers' features. "So how does that help?"

Since they had come as far as they had with the Phillips, Dean decided honesty was the best route. "Well, we usually have to burn the bones of a ghost's mortal body but with Barton, we figure there was blood and DNA, heck probably bone chips still on the track, holding him there. If we burn them, he might not have anything left to anchor him to the track…or to this life."

"Burn it how, a bomb?" Karl scoffed.

"We might be able to set the macadam on fire, let it burn awhile.." Sam revealed but Karl was shaking his head.

"No, not the macadam. That wasn't there back in the 1950's. It was a dirt track. The remains of Barton would be in the dirt under the pavement. And the pavement…it's thick. Every new track owner thought they could improve the track by putting another coat on top of the previous coat."

"Oh great," Dean grumbled, his eyes meeting Sam's. "So we're back to square one on how to send this guy packing."

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The race fairgrounds was covered in darkness when Dean drove the Impala through the electric gate Sam had circumvented. As they pulled onto the track, the brothers' eyes tracked the Impala's headlights to the 1956 Chevrolet Coupe that sat in the infield grass.

Cutting the engine, Dean let the silence stand a moment before he spoke. "Least Barton had good taste in cars."

"So what's our plan again, Dean?" Sam challenged, frustration and protest in his words. "Oh right, we don't have a plan," he accused, his eyes searing into Dean's as they sat in the dark car.

Giving Sam a glare, Dean climbed out of the car, rocksalt loaded shotgun in hand. Sam mirrored his actions. "I have a plan…" he half heartedly protested.

"Yeah, what plan Dean?" Sam prodded, his pace matching Dean's as they approached the old Chevy.

Reverently running his hand over the hood of the '56 Chevy, Dean drawled, "Car's a beauty." Shooting Sam a smile, he admitted, "Personally I'm glad we're not going to have to torch it."

"Dude, sometimes your car fetish really freaks me out," Sam jokingly taunted, shaking his head.

"It's not a fetish it's an appreciation," Dean clarified gruffly, giving the car's gleaming paint another caress. '_Cars don't tell you that you're pathetic. Don't demand promises from you that you would rather die than fulfill. And they don't leave you. So, yeah, cars rank pretty highly with me, Sammy,_' he left unsaid, but when he looked up to Sam, he wondered if he had inadvertently dropped his guard, had allowed Sam to see the truth.

Tilting his head, Sam contemplated his brother, tried to interpret the vibe his brother was giving off.

"What?" Dean gruffly prodded, knowing that going on the offensive was always his best smoke screen with Sam.

"Nothing." Shifting his eyes from Dean's challenging gaze, Sam stiffened as he saw the burned grass in the infield, knew that Rook had lost his life right there. Hastily he looked back to Dean, saw that his brother's eyes were also fixed on the scorched earth, didn't like the sorrow that his brother's stance emanated. Knowing that he had said all he could to lessen his brother's guilt, Sam almost sighed. Instead he steered his brother's concentration back to finishing the job. "So this plan of yours?"

Leaning against the old Chevy, his eyes staring at Rook's last stand, Dean lowly theorized, "I don't think Barton ever left. You said so yourself, the track's had some awesome luck over the years." Eyes rising to look at Sam who had come to stand beside him, he continued, "Some might even say luck that was too good to be true."

"You think Barton's been here, protecting the drivers?" Sam incredulously returned.

Dean shrugged even as he answered, "That's my gut feeling."

Having learned to trust Dean's gut feelings, Sam asked, more in point of clarification than disbelief as he came to stand in front of Dean, "But why hurt the guys you've been protecting? Kill them? Just because they're going to get what he couldn't?!"

"Like you said, professor, spirits act on their emotions more than humans would," Dean said almost like a sigh as he stood up, eyes searching out the outlines of the darkened track. In that moment he understood Barton better than he wanted to. "One of those drivers was going to get what he never got: a NASCAR ride, a ticket out of here. Forever."

At the longing in his brother's voice, Sam shuffled his feet, eyes flickering from his brother's profile to the darkness around them, wondering what his brother was seeing in his mind's eye: A similar opportunity lost, stolen away, a life so vastly different than the one he had, had ever known? Happiness?! Sam's stomach churned at his thoughts, at what he perceived were Dean's thoughts…regrets.

Dean seemed to shake himself, to loosen the weight of the memories of the past, of his own trampled dreams. Dreams were for people who hadn't watched their mother burn to death, who hadn't had the veil of innocence ripped from them when they were four years old, who didn't know their father had died for them…had chosen Hell rather than see his oldest son lose his life.

When Dean turned to him, Sam nearly shivered at the look in his brother's eyes, the desolation, the bitter acceptance of defeat. And Sam knew, it had nothing to do with hunting, with the life that had been chosen for his brother long ago, was, instead, for the life not chosen, the life that would never be his, the life Dean _deserved_. "Dean.." Sam gently entreated, stepping closer to his brother, wanting to ease the hurt, anyway he could. But Dean stepped away from him, started walking for the fourth turn on the track, hid behind the life that was his, whether he wanted it or not.

"So he bought it here," Dean announced, standing on the turn, bouncing the barrel of the rifle against the side of his leg. He watched Sam walk toward him amid the weakly moonlit track, the Impala's headlights still the only true beacon they had available.

"But knowing that doesn't do us much good," Sam said with a frustrated breath.

"He seems to have the run of the whole fairgrounds..out to the parking lot at least," Dean supplied, didn't make a retort to Sam's pessimistic comment.

"Yeah, we're pretty much on his turf," Sam sighed, almost in resignation but his word "turf" got him a look of ridicule from his brother. "What? Turf is a good word…especially for a ghost from the 1950s."

"Yeah, right, fine, _Cunningham_. Did you bring the soda pop and why don't we put on the radio, listen to "The leader of the pack," Dean taunted.

Sam laughed in spite of himself, "Yeah, sure Fonzie." Then they stood there, side by side, looking around the shadowed race track. "You could do this…if you wanted to, you know," Sam's quiet voice seemed to echo against the night.

"What?" Dean asked as if he was confused, didn't understand Sam's meaning.

"This. Racing," Sam clarified firmly, even though he knew he didn't have to. Turning to Dean, he caught Dean's arm, made his brother face him.

"Sam…."

"Don't. Don't tell me you don't want this, Dean. I don't need you to protect me with a lie," Sam entreated, didn't want any more barriers separating them, any more lies between them ..even if the truth hurt worse than anything else.

"Sam…" Dean protested. He didn't want to speak the truth, knew better than anyone that the truth was sometimes a curse, killed what was thriving, strangled the light, made you wish you were dead.

"I wanted to go to college…and I went, Dean. I went, left Dad and I left you." When Dean stiffened at his words, Sam flinched, knew that the brutality of his decision was still an open sore between them. "I know about dreams, Dean. I know about wanting them so badly that you risk everything…and everyone to get them. The crime isn't having a dream…the crime is how you achieve them. I'll let you go…"

And the words made Dean's breath catch.

Noting Dean's reaction, Sam plunged forward, knew he had to say it now before he lost his courage. "I'll let you go live the life you want to, Dean. I know you've wanted out of hunting and I…I've been making you stay." He gave a bitter laugh. "That's ironic isn't it? All those years I tried to convince you again and again to stop hunting, to stop doing everything Dad asked of you, to stop putting your life in jeopardy for strangers. And now I've turned into the one tying you to hunting, endangering your _life_, time and time again. Making you think that the hunt…that _any_ hunt is worth your life. It's not Dean, not to me, not ever to me. So if this is what you want, to race, I'll let you go…" Seeing the protest in his brother's eyes, he tacked on, "Or I'll stay with you, be your personal cheering section or reporter…mechanic if you teach me a thing or two about engines."

The offer was so unexpected, Sam's insight into his soul too precise, Dean stood stock still, met Sam's eyes in the moonlight. It was the offer his father had never made, it was the guilt free escape Dean had dreamed of but never believed would come his way. It was everything he wanted…and nothing even _close_ to what he wanted.

"You really should take him up on his offer.." a male voice spoke beside them, causing the Winchesters to spin around to see the ghost of Nelson Barton standing there, looking so mortal. His fifty style racing suit charred, his brown pompadour hair askew, causing strands to fall around his face. And then there was the sadness in his eyes, easily read. "I know what it's like to carry around regrets." But when Barton's look swung to Dean, only hatred burned in the ghost's eyes. "But it's too late for second chances…for me…and now for you."

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TBC

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Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	10. Hit and Run

Designated Driver

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 10: Hit and Run

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But when Barton's look swung solely to Dean, only hatred burned in the ghost's eyes. "But it's too late for second chances…for me…and now for you."

Instantly reacting to the threat to Dean, Sam raised his shotgun but, when he pulled the trigger, the gun misfired. The small explosive flash burned his hands and his retinas, had him dropping the gun, stumbling back as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, tried to see, to make the burning stop.

Dean's finger was on his own shotgun's trigger when Sam's gun literally blew up in his face. Realizing that Barton had exchanged his fetish for exploding car engines to exploding gunpowder, Dean, with a growl of outrage at the attack on Sam, gripped his shotgun like a base ball bat and swung it through Barton. Unable to withstand the presence of the rocksalt even in the shotgun cartridges, the ghost disappeared. But a moment later Dean's own gun emitted a small flare of discharged gunpowder. Throwing the now useless weapon to the ground, Dean quickly moved to Sam, who was bent over, the back of his hands pressed into his eyes. He reached a hand out to encircle Sam's bicep, determined to help Sam, to protect him, to reassure his brother that he was there.

Burning eyes clamped tightly shut leaving him trapped in the void of sightlessness, Sam straightened and staggered back in surprised fear when a hand fell upon his arm. But a millisecond later, he stilled, felt himself flush with shame. He didn't need his sight to know it was Dean beside him, to sense his brother's presence, to know that the strong callused hand that had slid around his arm was his big brother's sure, gentle grip. Instinctively, amid his personal darkness he reached blindly for his brother like he had done a hundred times before… when he had a nightmare as a kid, on his first hunt…on so many recent hunts that it had become a reflex, that need for connection, for reassurance that they were still together, whole. His hands connecting with his brother's shoulders then trailing down to his chest, Sam wrapped his fingers in the familiar leather of Dean's jacket, held on.

"Whoa, easy. It's just me, Sam," Dean soothingly said even as Sam's retreat halted, as his brother reached out for him, claimed a seemingly unbreakable purchase on his jacket. Gently slipping his fingers under Sam's jaw, he tilted his brother's face up. By the moonlight he could just barely see the black soot on Sam's nose and under his tightly closed eyes. "Can you see anything?"

At his brother's question, Sam forced his eyes open but could only manage a squint. Then he was quickly clamping them shut again. "Yeah but it burns. Where's Barton?"

"I don't know," Dean tersely replied, sending a quick glance around the deeply shadowed track before focusing again on Sam. His touch was tender as he used his fingers to wipe away some of the residual soot around his brother's eyes.

His trust allowing him to remain immobile under Dean's ministrations, Sam implored, "Dean, don't worry about me, watch out for Barton," afraid that Dean's inattention would cost his brother his life. But it was another moment before he could force himself to release his desperate hold on Dean's jacket, back up his words with action.

"He's doing the whole invisible routine right now, Sammy, so watching out for him is a little hard. And I'm getting the vibe he's not going to just let us leave tonight, try again tomorrow," Dean returned, his focus on Sam's face. With some of the soot gone, he tried to determine if Sam had sustained a burn around his eyes. Running his fingers lightly under his brother's eyes, he felt surprised and heartened that Sam didn't flinch away from his touch. "Your skin doesn't feel burned, Sammy. It's probably just the flash and the powder that went into the air that's hurting your eyes. Hold on," he ordered but his tone was all reassurance, comfort, conveyed the unspoken promise that was always between them: that Dean took care of Sammy. Always. Sliding his hands free of Sam, Dean pulled his silver flask from his pocket and unscrewed the lid to the holy water. Then stepping closer to Sam, wrapping his hand around the side of Sam's neck to steady Sam, to link them, he instructed, "Tilt your head back and I'll pour some water over your eyes."

But fear was hitching in Sam's chest, not for himself but for Dean. For Dean who was stubbornly worrying about _him_ instead of the ghost who had practically vowed to kill him. "Barton…" he began in protest.

"Is going to do what he's going to do," Dean curtly dismissed but his next words were gentle, were for Sam. "And personally, when he makes his move, I would like you to have my back. So unless you can see with your eyes closed, I think it's in my best interest to help you right now, Sam."

Touched by his brother's need for him and fueled by a determination to not let Dean down when he was counting on him to protect him, to be his partner, to be his brother, Sam found himself agreeing. "Sounds good." Obediently, he tilted his head back but couldn't help but throw out a taunt. "Can you reach or should I get on my knees?"

"Bite me!" Dean groused as he began to pour a little water over Sam's eyes. Obstinately he refused to admit that he had to practically stand on his tip toes to manage the task, that his hand on Sam's neck had become more about keeping his own balance than connecting Sam. "This helping?"

"Yeah," Sam said, rubbing at his eyes, blinking.

"I think you missed a spot," Barton whispered by Dean's ear, materializing even as he shoved Dean forward.

The shove sent Dean plowing into Sam, sent both brothers to the ground, knocked the air out of them. Sprawled half on top of Sam, Dean quietly ordered, "Go for the car. I'll distract him," before he began to pushing himself off Sam.

Sam reached out to catch Dean, tried to stop whatever risky tactic Dean had in mind, but his brother's leather jacket slipped through his fingers. Through half lidded, burning eyes, Sam saw Dean gain his feet and purposefully turn his back to him, turn, instead, to face Barton. Internally cursing their vulnerability and Dean's willingness to make himself a willing target, Sam rolled over, slid his hands under himself, was gearing up to follow Dean's orders. Using his left shoulder to wipe at his eye, he fought to keep his eyes open, to ignore the burning sensation, to blink back the holy water and tears alike that made his vision swim, made the sight of the Impala sitting fifty yards away seem like a shimmering mirage in the darkness. His muscles coiled for action, he waited for the opening Dean would provide for him to make his break to the Impala. Already he was deciding what weapons to get from the Impala's trunk, the defenses they could mount against Barton's attacks, the salt he would douse himself and Dean in if nothing else worked to ward off Barton.

Stepping toward the now visible Barton, putting Sam safely at his back, Dean derisively drawled, "So I'm supposed to feel sorry for you because you did some dumb-behind motorcycle stunt and blew your shot at the pros? And now you're pissed that, for you, there is no second chance for fame and fortune? You _killed _people, dude!" he accused as he began to slowly circle around Barton.

Turning to track Dean, Barton growled, a grimace of resentment tightened his youthful features, "You don't know what it's like, being stuck here, being so close to getting everything you want and having that opportunity gone. Forever."

Stopping as he gained his objective of maneuvering Barton around so his back was to Sam, Dean drew closer to the ghost and lowly condemned, "I know about murder. I know about you taking the lives of men like you, men who wanted nothing more than to race. You had an _accident,_ Barton. Someone didn't murder you, didn't intentionally kill you, didn't steal your future from you. No one did to you what you did to Troy Nichols, to Rook, to the others," Dean challenged as he stood toe to toe with Barton, all the while hoping the spirit didn't sense Sam's slow departure.

Barton shook his head, pointed his finger at Dean, "I didn't want to kill Troy. I thought he would stop competing once someone was killed, would see that his dream to go pro wasn't worth his life."

"But he didn't leave or stop racing, wouldn't abandon the idea of getting picked by NASCAR. None of them did," Dean pointed out, determined to keep Barton's attention on him, to give Sam whatever lead time he could.

Beginning to pace in front of Dean, Barton accused, "Why couldn't they just be content here…like I was for awhile. I watched out for them, kept them safe, for years! It was me who made sure no more lives were lost on this track. I helped put of the fires, kept them off the walls and stopped their cars from rolling. Me, I did that."

"Until NASCAR came knocking, until you realized one of them was going to go off to live your dream, have the life you never will," Dean baited, knew that Barton's emotional range was a pendulum now, was without restraint, could erupt without warning…against him or against Sam. And Dean preferred it be against him, was ensuring that it was.

Shaking his head in disgust, Dean laughed tauntingly, "Dude, you're a joke, you know that. Your time for glory, **it's over**. The race cars today, the race car _drivers_ today…you would never make the cut. And that hunk of junk car you used to drive.." Dean snorted, "it's rivets would litter the track before you made one lap." His voice turning fierce, Dean leveled his coldest look onto Barton. "You are a second rate driver, Barton. Then and now. I looked at your contract, and man, they were stiffing you," Dean scoffed with a low derogatory laugh, "They weren't hiring you to be a winner, they were hiring you to be a backdoor for their primary driver. To hold back the hounds, that was all you were going to be good for, Barton. The sacrificial lamb, the hick they pulled from a 'no-where' track that they never planned to give the best car to. You would have gotten scraps, Barton. Like Garner does to Kentworth, keeps him on only to counter the whispers that he's monopolizing the track with his ringers. A good press release article, that was you, Barton. Well, until you wiped out on your bike, right here," Dean announced, spreading his arms wide, encompassing not only the turn but the track. "Did the whole Leader of the Pack gig." Dean dropped his voice to a mock whisper, met Barton's eyes leveling, "Admit it, you choked right? Knew you couldn't handle the big times so you offed yourself, went up in a memorable ball of flames on the track because you didn't have the guts to leave." Dean stepped closer, goaded further, "And you still don't have the guts to leave."

Yelling in fury, Barton charged forward, threw off a force of energy that slammed into Dean, sent him flying backwards through the air. When Dean impacted onto the infield grass, he rolled a few times with the momentum until he came to a halt, face down onto the grass.

"Got his attention now.." Dean wheezed, spitting grass from his mouth. Sliding his hands under his chest, he began pushing himself to his feet, wanted to accomplish the feat before Barton's next attack. But Barton delivered a metaphysical kick to his ribs, sent him flipping backwards into the grass. Hand bracing his chest which was screaming in pain, Dean wished he had the breath to verbally scream, had the breath to even _breathe_. '_I hate the aftereffects of smoke inhalation and pissed off dead guys. And, crap, I hope Sam's at the Impala by now 'cause I can't stall this guy much longer…not and live.'_

Fighting against every need in him to turn around to make sure Dean was alright, to make sure that the sickening sound of flesh and bones connecting with the ground hadn't heralded Dean's death, Sam, eyes burning but open, ran for the Impala, knew that any seconds which he lost could mean the difference between survival and defeat, could make Dean's efforts, his pain be all in vain. He was seven strides away from the Impala when the black Chevy's engine came to life. Skidding to a stop on the track's macadam, Sam watched as the Impala surged backward and then lurched to a stop, caught him in her headlight beams like a deer.

"Oh crap!" Sam cursed as the Impala barreled forward. Diving out of the way of the Impala's grill, he felt the whoosh of the vehicle as it passed by him even as he gracelessly landed on his stomach on the race track macadam. Dreading that the Impala's true target hadn't been him, Sam rolled over to see the Impala's taillights streaking away from him as the car picked up speed. Eyes flying ahead of the Impala, Sam screamed, "Dean!" because his brother was literally lying in the Impala's path.

Hearing Sam's scream, Dean looked toward Sam, saw the Impala heading his way…saw Sam coming to his feet. Though it was too dark and too far to read his brother's expression, the panic and fear in Sam's shout told Dean everything he needed to know. Sam didn't want to see him splattered along the infield grass, didn't want to see the car that he loved kill him, didn't want him to give up, to go away, not like their father had, understood sharply that Sam raged against that happening as if his life depended on it.

Sam's need for him gave Dean the energy to stagger to his feet. Hand bracing against his chest, he stood there, in the headlight beams, waiting. He heard Sam scream his name again but he remained still, biding his time. No one knew his car better than he did, certainly not some whiny race car driving ghost. He knew how sharp she could turn, how much pressure on the wheel it took to have her do a 180, knew her maneuverability at the any given speed.

Now on his feet, Sam watched Dean freeze, stand like a martyr in front of the fast approaching car. "DEAN!" he screamed, began running as if could somehow stop what was about to happen. "NO!" exploded from him when the Impala was only a few feet away from Dean, watched in horror and awe and disbelief, as Dean dove right, seemingly at the last second, like a bored matador that knew a particular bull's tendencies too well. Still running forward, Sam saw Dean land with an almost graceful roll as the Impala streaked by. Saw the Impala try to turn around mid charge, watched as the black Chevy slid up the track until its driver's side impacted with the track wall. '_Crazy, brilliant, reckless idiot_,' Sam grumbled at Dean, knew that Dean's actions had been all calculated, that his brother had planned for the car to miss him, to end up in the wall.

Pushing his complaining body to his feet, Dean saw Sam running for him. Giving a quick look to the Impala as it worked to disengage herself from the wall, Dean shouted to Sam. "No Sam! Get inside Barton's car. I don't think he can get in her," he yelled across the track to Sam even as he hoped his theory proved right, that it was a revelation he was having and not just a shot in the dark. Prayed that he knew Barton as well as he thought he did, that Barton was like him. Because Dean knew, given a thousand cars to choose from, he himself would always pick the Impala. The fact that Barton had not deemed to inhabit his own '57 Chevy…it told Dean that the car was a threshold Barton couldn't cross, wanted to, oh but he wanted to, but he couldn't.

At Dean's shouted order, Sam slowed his steps, stopped. Chest heaving, eyes looking to Dean and then to the Impala that was backing off from the wall, indecision warred in him. He wanted to go to Dean, to help him, to have his brother's back but with bitterness, he realized that the distance between him and Dean was too great to traverse before the Impala made its next assault. With a growl of frustration, Sam swung around, began running full out for the '57 Chevy, knew in his gut that his life depended on him reaching the car before Barton stopped him, that Dean's life pended on that.

Attention torn between making sure Sam reached the old '57 Chevy and leery of his own '67 Chevy's sudden deadly affection, Dean took a few steps backwards, drew deeper into the infield. Eyes shifting from Sam as he ran for the older Chevy then back to the driverless Impala as it finally scraped its way free of the wall's contours. "What's the matter, it hurt too badly to actually sit behind the wheel of a car?" he yelled out his taunt, watched with grim satisfaction as Barton materialized in the Impala's driver's seat. '_There you are. Right where I can keep an eye on you.' _However his fists clenched as hatred gathered in his gut. Barton was using _his_ car against him, was forcing him to try and take out his own baby in order to survive. And now, adding insult to injury, the ghost was "sitting" behind the Impala's wheel.

Sliding to a stop at the '57 Chevy's driver's door, Sam yanked on the door, felt foolish and angry when it didn't give way to his wishes. Cursing, he spared a quick look to where Dean now stood, saw the Impala was free, was facing menacingly toward Dean, heard the roar as the Impala's engines were injected with gas even as the vehicle was purposefully held back, its tires spinning, scenting the air with burning rubber. Giving Dean's precarious situation a last worried glance, Sam smashed his elbow through the Chevy's driver's side window, the shattering of glass somehow loud amid the night shrouded track and single car engine's roar. Reaching inside the broken window, his fingers fumbled around trying to locate the lock, the hairs of his neck on end. He couldn't help anxiously wonder when Barton would arrive: before or after he got in the car?

Finally his fingers contacted with the lock. Unlocking the door, Sam jumped into the car, slammed the door in his wake but jerked in surprise when Barton suddenly was there, his face nearly pressed against the driver's window. The ghost shouted an enraged, "No!" that echoed through the night. Instantly he knew that Dean had been right, the car was their sanctuary, was off limits to Barton.

"Get out of my car! Get out of my car!!" Barton yelled as he began pacing back and forth along the car's length, reacting like a starved animal that was being made to watch something else eat his meal.

Reaching under the steering column, Sam set to work on hot wiring the car. "It's not your car anymore," he growled. Raising his eyes to Barton's, he smiled cruelly as he put two wires together and the beautiful sound of a Chevy engine coming to life was heard. Putting the car in gear, Sam felt the car's wheels spinning, tearing up the infield grass before they got their traction and then the classic car bound forward.

Having started to run toward Sam and the safety of the approaching '57 Chevy, Dean cursed when Barton vanished. Though he was certain that the Impala would once again be used against him, he still cursed when he heard the Impala's tires spinning on the track behind him as the car leaped forward. Legs pumping, lungs burning, Dean ran toward Sam and the '57 Chevy which was speeding toward him, trying not to calculate his odds. '_If one train leaves Chicago and another leaves Philadelphia…which one will hit you first.."_ he sardonically posed as he chanced a glance over his shoulder. He was greeted with the menacing sight of the Impala's grill intent on making him her new hood ornament.

Changing tactics, Dean spun around, dove forward toward the Impala's hood but when the Impala's front bumper clipped his leg, his dive turned into a crumbled fall. Landing bonelessly onto the hood, he slid forward, slammed his head against the windshield before he toppled off the car. Hitting the ground with a groan, he lay there unmoving as the Impala's rear wheel just missed running over his right hand.

Watching Dean brutally skitter across the Impala's hood, crumble onto the ground and lay still, Sam howled in worried outrage. Cursing and pleading with the '57 Chevy to go faster, to get to Dean before the Impala made another pass, before Dean was _killed_, he shouted, "Come on! Come on! You're supposed to be a friggin' winning ride!" his foot nearly putting the accelerator through the floorboards.

The right side of his face pressed into the infield grass, lungs painfully absent of air, body aflame with pain, head pounding so hard his stomach was threatening to revolt, Dean told himself to move, to get up, to not let Barton win. But his brain apparently wasn't getting through to his limbs, because they weren't moving, _he_ wasn't moving. As if from some bystanders' perspective, he saw the Impala fishtail as Barton sought to bring the car around, to finish him off. It was a weird view, seeing the undercarriage of the Impala from a distance, seeing the tread of the tires at eye level, coming toward him.

For all the hours he had found sanctuary under the car's frame, it would be a cruel twist of fate if his last sight would be the undercarriage of the Impala. That what he loved would end up killing him…that the car would be used like his father intended to use him…to kill someone that _loved_ him. That he would be used to kill someone he loved more than he would ever love himself…that he was supposed to _kill_ Sam.

A ragged, weak but sharp, protest of "No," burst from him. A protest at the role his father expected him to play, at the role Sam expected him to play, at the thought of his love used as a weapon to kill, to _murder_. Pushing hands again under his chest, he pushed himself up, got on all fours, barely managed to half dive, half roll out of the tread of the Impala. Used the momentum of his roll to his advantage, to get his adrenaline flowing, to get his legs under him, he stood on shaking legs, saw that Barton was putting the Impala in reverse, was tired of the game already and was resorting to underhanded tactics. "Coward!" he railed even as he began to stumble backwards, his eyes fixed on the Impala's approaching taillights. When Barton generously applied the gas, Dean staggered as he spun around, caught his hand on the ground to steady himself before he began running, but he could practically feel the heat from the Impala's taillights at his back, knew that whatever hope he had clung to was about depleted.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the '57 Chevy cutting through the infield, barreling toward him, destined to intersect his path, could just make out Sam's outline in the driver's seat. Knowing he had to buy some time for Sam to reach him, Dean zagged left then instantly dodged right, put all of his remaining energy into his legs, into running, into making it to Sam. Finally the '57 Chevy was in his path. Without breaking stride, Dean dove forward, slid over the older car's hood even as the '57 Chevy shook as the Impala's back bumper buried itself into its front panel. His slide taking him over and off the hood, Dean landed on his back, groaned as he mercilessly collided with the infield grass _again_.

Leaning across the interior of the '57 Chevy, Sam opened the passenger, ordered, "Get in Dean!"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, responding to Sam's order without thought, regardless of his body's complaints. Half crawling and half stumbling he reached the open door, felt Sam's arm wrapped around his left forearm and knew it was more his brother's strength than his own that got him into the car's interior.

Using his long arms, Sam reached across Dean and pulled the passenger door shut. Then with concern pouring off him, he turned his full focus on Dean, who was slumped against the seat, the wheezing harshness of his breathing effecting Sam more than the screeching of the metal as the Impala yanked itself free of the '57 Chevy. Resting his hand gently on Dean's chest Sam asked with worried, breathlessness, "Dean, are you alright?"

Instead of answering Sam's inquiry, Dean rasped out, "I really hate this guy, Sammy," as he turned his head against the seat so his eyes met his brother's. Before Sam could reply, the car rocked as the Impala slammed into the driver's side door. Motivated into action, Sam put the car into reverse, watched as the Impala's third assault harmlessly missed them as it invaded the space where the car was seconds before. Spinning the car around into a 180, Sam pressed the gas, sent the car onto the track, looked in the rearview mirror and saw the Impala's headlights gaining on them. "Any ideas?" he asked, shooting Dean a quick look but then the Impala slammed into the rear of the car, nearly giving the brother's whiplash.

When Sam gave the '57 more gas, the classic car tore off the infield grass, hit the track's blacktop and lurched forward but the Impala's grill remained inches from its rear bumper. Abandoning caution, Sam pressed the gas pedal to the floor as the car raced along the track's straight stretch but the Impala sped up to, bound forward, slammed her right fender into the '57's rear panel, causing the '57 to jerk right. Gritting his teeth, Sam steered the car right just in time to avoid the Impala's next vicious nudge. But then the Impala was neck and neck with them and Sam spared a glance over, saw the look of exhilaration on Barton's face as he swung the Impala right for another attack.

Skittering again away at the last second, Sam missed the blow even as he got closer to the wall. "Crap Dean! I can't pull away from her! You just had to tune up the engine, had to make sure she could bury the speedometer needle."  
"Excuse me for trying to make sure we could outrun cops and bad guys," Dean lowly growled.

"Well, Dean, Barton appreciates your dedication to the car that he's using to _kill us," _Sam shot back, hating that Barton was grinning ear to ear as he sped the Impala up and left off the gas, easily edging forward and falling back to prove Sam's point.

"We're not dead yet," Dean railed back, sitting up further, eyes swinging forward, taking in the track ahead and shifting to Barton who flanked them.

Sam gave a sarcastically bark of laughter. "_Yet_. Glad you tacked that on…makes me feel _so_ much better."

But instead of a comeback, Dean ordered, "Slam on the brakes! Now Sam!" as he saw they were heading into the turn, knew Barton's next move…because it would have been his own.

Instinctively, Sam obeyed his brother's commands, did it without the misgivings he always had with his father's orders. Slamming on the brakes, Sam felt the '57 shudder as it tried to slow down. Then, suddenly the Impala was in front of them, in the exact spot where they had been. Sam watched with grim satisfaction as the Impala's passenger side, unexpectedly not meeting the molded metal of the '57 Chevy, collided with the wall, sending sparks flying at the friction of machine and wall.

Hitting the gas, Sam took the turn low, sought to make a break away from the Impala's heavier chassis, faster engine. But the Impala came off the wall like it was rebounding, hit the older vehicle broadside on the right rear wheel base. Hit it hard enough to dislodge the Impala's right side tires from the ground, left the car on two wheels, poised to roll over. "Dean!" Sam yelled for help, knew that he wasn't the expert driver that Dean was. That right now, he was out of his league, that he was most likely going to get himself and Dean killed. Knew without a doubt that the only person he had absolute faith in to save them was his brother. Because, whether he was four or twenty four years old, some things didn't change.

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TBC

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Ok, I admit a second cliff hanger in a row is cruel but I just didn't want the action to be a let down for anyone.

Thanks so much for still reading and reviewing!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	11. Deadly Derby

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the long intermission! I couldn't seem to write myself out of a paper bag for what seemed like forever. Hopefully I'm back "on track" now.

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Chapter 11: Deadly Derby

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But the Impala came off the wall like it was a rebound, hit the older vehicle broadside on the right rear wheel base. Hit it hard enough to dislodge the Impala's right side tires from the ground, left the car on two wheels, poised to roll over. "Dean!" Sam yelled for help, knew that he wasn't the expert driver that Dean was.

Hearing Sam's panicked call at their precarious position, Dean was about to shout out instructions when his end of the car angled higher into the air, reminding him too much of a tilt-a-whirl ride, without the safety bar. Finding himself a slave to the rules of gravity, he began sliding down the seat, his grasping hands unable to find enough purchase on the dashboard to stop his descent. "Ah Crap!" he growled out an instant before he toppled into Sam, **hard**, shoulders, ribs, hip bones and legs impacting harshly bone against bone.

It was only Sam's death grip on the steering wheel that allowed him to retain his hold as Dean slammed into him, jarring them both. But it seemed the only good news. For the view outside the car tilted farther and Sam felt his shoulder press harder against the door, was almost resigned that the car would roll, would viciously toss them around in the seatbeltless interior. Amid his dark predictions, the sound of Dean's voice was a life line to him, steadied his nerves, made him believe that things were going to be OK. Had to be.

Knowing instinctively what Sam needed from him, Dean tersely instructed, his voice confident but low with pain, "Turn left, hard, and give it a little gas!" Glad that he could do _something_ because Lord knew he couldn't move, couldn't find a way to peel himself off of Sam's side, to fight and win the only increasing pressure of gravity as the car rested even more on its two left tires.

Without hesitancy, Sam followed Dean's advice and jerked the car to the left, his foot tapping the gas pedal, nearly forgetting to breathe. The car obeyed his commands, swung left, sped up only to continue moving forward on two wheels like some General Lee stunt. When Sam was sure he couldn't hold his breath a second longer, the right side of the car began to descend, slowly, as if in protest. But, with a few more rotations of the tires, the leverage won out, had the right side of the car dropping rapidly back onto solid ground with brutal force.

The brothers simultaneously grunted at the punishing impact that tossed them around the interior like they weighed nothing. With the car firmly on the ground once again, Sam slammed on the brakes, wanting off the ride, badly. Though the wide tires skidded on the blacktop, the car soon shuddered to a stop, leaving the rumble of the '57 engine the only competition to the brothers' harsh breathing.

Turning to Dean, Sam saw that his brother was no longer meshed against him, was instead sprawled across the seat, his head inches from the passenger door, was a shadow among the dark interior of the car. "Hey, you alright?" he asked, hand coming to rest on Dean's hip, needing the connection as badly as he wanted Barton stopped, wanted safety.

Dean's reply was a gruff "Help me up," but the tone was too deep even for Dean, told Sam that Dean wasn't alright but was pushing through the pain, was determined to still be the unstoppable hunter, the always reliable big brother. Before he could suggest that Dean stay lying down, Dean's hand slid between his hand and his brother's hip, gave his hand an impatient squeeze.

"Sam, help, now!" Dean barked, wanting to be ready for Barton's next attack but admitting, if only to himself, that getting up on his own, though possible, wouldn't be quick…or quiet. When Sam's hand tightened in his, he tried to prepare himself for the pain, tried to turn his groan of pain into a sound of frustration, of anger when Sam levered him to an upright position. Arm pressed against his ribs, hoping his breath wasn't as ragged and loud as it sounded inside his own head, Dean maneuvered in the seat until his back rested against the seat. Realizing that his brother was still holding his hand, was still lending support, he pulled his hand free from Sam's grip.

"This guy is beyond pissing me off," Dean lowly growled, his eyes not on Sam but looking outside the windshield, at the Impala which had stopped yards ahead, sat there idling, waiting. But he could feel Sam's eyes on him across the dark, assessing him, worried for him, understanding how this particular battle _hurt_ him …understood it better than Dean wished he did.

It wasn't the first time his car had been used against him, the woman in white, Constance, had used it to try to make him and Sam roadkill. And then there were the times the supernatural screwed with her and her engine just cut out. But this, this felt like a betrayal, like a family dog that had gone rabid, had to be put down, no matter the 'If found return to Dean Winchester' tag it virtually wore. Was like a gun of his in someone else hands, his responsibility, his guilt if it took a life…couldn't imagine how he would live if it ended up taking _Sam's_ life. And that was what was at stake, what Barton had turned the Impala into: a weapon, a threat to Sam, to him. It couldn't matter that the Impala was the closest thing to home he had since he was four years old. That it is was the only thing truly ever _his. _That, in a life of fear, it was his sanctuary. Was all he had when Sam had left for college and he ended up hunting alone, having parted ways with his father when being together was too hard, too hurtful, too detrimental to them both.

'_It's not all I have anymore. Sam's sitting right beside me,'_ he chastised himself as the decision loomed over him like a life was in the balance. '_One is: Sam's, Your's_,' he answered angrily, like he couldn't see the handwriting on the wall, didn't know the value of a human life versus a machine's fate versus his sick, pathetic attachment to the vehicle. In dread, he watched the Impala do a 180 on the track, taking a layer of rubber off her tires as she turned to face them, her headlights catching them in their beams as the engine revved. But Barton held her back, wanted to build the tension, to savor their fear, to relish in his victory.

"Crap, here we go again," Sam cursed, hand reaching out to put the '57 Chevy into reverse, to evade the Impala's …no, **Barton's** next attack. But Dean's hand wrapped around his wrist, halted him. His eyes flew to Dean's, in worry and confusion but Dean's eyes were fixed on the Impala, on his car, on the one possession that was Dean's and Dean's alone.

"Take her out, Sam," Dean said quietly, lowly, his eyes then swinging to hold Sam's. "Take out the Impala."

Whatever Sam expected Dean to say, it wasn't that, it would never have been that. Eyes latched onto Dean, unable to look away, even to see if the Impala was attacking, Sam breathed, "Dean…" half plea, half hurt, all denial.

"It's not like we have a lot of options, Sam," Dean tried to return lightly, logically, a bitter, sad smile turning up his lips.

"But Dean it's the _Impala_.." Sam protested, didn't even want to _think_ about destroying the car.

"Yeah, and it's her or us, Sam," Dean returned, conviction in his tone, resolve gleaming in his eyes. "I know you've tried to go easy on her …for my sake. And I ..I appreciate that Sam, I really do. But it's time to face facts. Barton isn't going to stop until we're dead…and apparently he's not as emotionally tied to his car as I hoped he would be."

"Dean, if we can just get off the track…get past the parking lot…" Sam said, needing another answer, for Dean, for himself.

"Trouble is we have to get past Barton and the Impala first. And we can't do that if we keep the kid gloves on...can't do it if we're dead, Sam," Dean reasoned, held Sam's eyes, tried to convey in his look that he wouldn't hold Sam responsible for any harm to the Impala, that he was asking Sam to do this, needed him to do it.

Reading the conviction, the appeal, in Dean's eyes, Sam nodded silently, let his hand slip from the gear shaft. They weren't going to run any more. "Dean, I'm not sure how…" he began quietly, eyes dropping from Dean's, hating that he needed help, that he needed Dean's help to do _this_, that this couldn't be something he did on his own _for _Dean, so Dean wouldn't _have to_.

"I'll talk you through it," Dean reassured kindly, grimness in the set of his jaw but not in the words he spoke to his brother. He knew it wasn't Sam's fault, the situation, the corner they were backed into. No, he rested the blame on his own shoulders for not foreseeing this happening, Barton using a car as a weapon, even using the Impala against them. Blamed Barton for clutching too tightly to a dream that was as dead as he was.

At the kindness in Dean's voice, Sam raised his eyes, met Dean's eyes without worry of reproach for his inexperience. He knew that tone of his brother's, knew it from his childhood, trusted that tone, inexplicitly. It was the tone in which Dean had taught him…practically everything, with gentleness, patience, encouragement. Was the tone Dean would use to teach him how to survive today..like he had taught him how to survive a thousand before. Reading the question in Dean's eyes, Sam nodded, was ready to let his brother guide him without question, without debate, without doubt. It was the level of trust his father had demanded of him and never got, had never _earned_.

At Sam's nod, Dean began to formulate his counter attack. "Alright we're going to stay in the inside. Give her some gas then let off then give her some gas again, fake Barton out, make him think we're playing wounded."

"Ok," Sam replied, unable to stop his gut from clenching at the knowledge that their fate was resting in his hands, in his driving skills, that, though Dean would be instructing him, it fell to him to perform the tasks. With one last look at Dean across the headlight lit interior, seeing the faith in his brother's gaze, he drew in a deep breath and sent the '57 forward. Then, the next moment, he let off the gas and then accelerated slowly again. Like they had waved a red flag at a bull, the Impala bound forward, Barton apparently predicting where their paths would intercept. Continuing to give the car some gas and then let it drift a second or two, Sam couldn't help but look to the approaching Impala as the distance between them shrank. "Dean…" he called out in near panic when the Impala's grill was only a few yards away from hitting them.

But Dean waited until the Impala draw even closer to them before he ordered, "Gun it!" knowing that they had to cut it close. As the '57 Chevy obeyed his brother's command and surged forward, he felt himself pressed back into the seat, watched as they sped out of the Impala's path. "Stay in the inside lane, Sam. It will force Barton to take the next turn on the outside. When he pulls up beside you, gets his nose level with my door, send him into the wall."

"Got it," Sam responded, heart tripping in his chest as he saw Barton had recovered quickly and had the Impala speeding toward them. The Impala slammed into their rear and Sam struggled to keep the '57 under control. Another neck snapping impact almost tore the wheel from his hands.

"You're doing good, Sammy, the turn's coming up so he'll make his move soon," Dean encouraged, eyes ahead to the turn, knowing in his gut that Barton wanted a challenge, wanted to feel the sensation of racing again, to outsmart, to outdrive his opponent. That he would not miss his chance to feel the Impala zing along the turn like a living thing that he alone could control. No, Barton would not want to push them through the turn, he would want to race them through the turn.

Sparing a glance in the rearview mirror, Sam watched as the Impala slipped right and knew that Dean had predicted correctly, Barton was making his move. Hands tightly wound around the steering wheel, Sam looked left out the passenger window, saw Dean's focus was also trained on the track beside them. Then Barton was there, pushing the Impala forward, trying to out pace them as they headed into the turn. Breath trapped in his throat, to Sam it seemed like everything was in slow motion as the Impala's nose inched forward, got level with the '57 Chevy's passenger door.

When Sam yanked the car right, as the '57 impacted with the '67 Chevy, Dean was both pleased and horrified by the scream of metal on metal, by the sight of the Impala being strong-armed toward the wall of the turn. But when Barton willingly sent the Impala to the right, toward the wall, Dean foresaw his opponent's next move. "Go left, speed up and slam into her again, now!"

Having felt the easing of the resistance of the Impala against them, Sam didn't question Dean's instructions, simply did them. Found that when he hit the Impala again, the force spun the Impala around, had her impacting with the wall head on. Finding himself free of the Impala's shadow, Sam sped up, sent the older Chevy flying expertly out of the turn.

"Stay in the middle of the track for the straight stretch, when Barton comes up to try and get even with you, block him a few times, then put on your brakes a little and let him pass. When he's in front of you, hit him with as much force as you can on the side, back by his rear tire," Dean laid out his plan, knowing the outcome the actions should have, had to have if he wanted to save Sam, to save himself.

Understanding came to Sam, and he shot a look to Dean. "Dean, maybe there's another way."

"Just do it," Dean said with quiet strength, eyes meeting Sam's. "Keep us alive, Sammy." And there was absolute faith in Dean's eyes, unshakeable trust and unveiled affection, all directed at Sam.

It was everything Sam needed from Dean, mended the rift that had come between them on this particular job, helped to heal the scars that their father's death had caused, made it clear that they were in this together. Made him believe that they were an impenetrable, undefeatable, united force. Was a force that Barton should never have challenged, that no one should ever seek to tear apart, not even the brothers themselves.

Abandoning his misgivings, Sam manhandled the car to the center lane of the track and waited for the Impala's approach. He didn't have to wait long. He swerved into the Impala's path, felt the '67's front end mesh with the '57 bumper but he didn't relent. As the Impala sought to slip past him on the right, he dodged that way, again blocking her progress, causing another collision of metal upon metal. He shadowed the Impala's dodge left, giving Barton absolutely no window to gain on them.

"Alright Sammy, he'll fake you out, go right but dodge left almost instantly, just let 'em go by," Dean said, having watched Barton in action enough to know the other driver's tactics. And there was grim satisfaction as Barton sent the Impala right and then swung it wildly left and Dean could feel the '57 Chevy under him ease off the gas as Sam let the Impala start to streak by. He didn't need to shout out an instruction, Sam was already reacting, was plowing the car unmercifully into the Impala's left rear wheel. The impact lifted the Impala's passenger side wheel off the ground in a mimic of their earlier crisis.

Knowing in his heart that he didn't _want_ to destroy the Impala, because it was something Dean loved, was a _part_ of Dean, was therefore a part of _him, _Samboth hoped and dreaded that the Impala would go into a roll.

Dean cringed, nearly shut his eyes as the Impala lurched to the side, that it seemed likely that the driver's side would crash against the unforgiving track macadam, that the _thing_ he valued most in his life would be destroyed. '_I told Sam to do it! I told Sam to do it! It's the Impala or us! Get your priorities straight!_' flew through him in that instant even as the Impala teetered between destruction and survival. As they passed the Impala, Dean couldn't help turning in his seat. He groaned in pain at the motion, hand coming to press against his chest for his effort but from out of the back window he saw that the Impala hadn't toppled over, was still upright. His relief was soon distorted with disappointment when Barton put the Impala back into motion and he saw it coming again toward them with menacing speed.

Torn by relief and dread at the sight in his rearview mirror, Sam pointed out, eyes switching from the rearview to Dean, "Dean, even if I do take out the Impala, it won't stop him." Felt desperate for another plan, for something that saved them and didn't steal away even more from his brother than Dean had already sacrificed.

Eyes meeting Sam's, Dean saw the desperation in his brother's moonlit features and it kicked in his brotherly instincts, his desire to protect Sam, made him wrack his brain for another solution, one that didn't leave Sam feeling guilty for destroying the Impala, for hurting _him_. His eyes sparked as Plan B came to him, sharp and clear. "I got an idea. Get us off the track, Sam. Here, go through the pit area," he instructed urgently, pointing to the break in the pit area wall, knowing that Barton was moments away from being beside them, from blocking their escape.

Without question, Sam turned the wheel hard, sent them sliding into the pit area, barely got the car straightened out to make it through the wall without scraping the sides. "Now what?" Sam tersely asked, ready to follow his brother's lead as the car left the track and entered the garage area, saw that the Impala was also following Dean's lead, was again seeking to overtake them.

"Drive through that tent," Dean supplied, pointing to the white tent set up on the left side of the track fairgrounds.  
"Pastor Pete's Tent of Repentance?!" Sam couldn't help explaining, a tinge of 'you've got to be kidding' in his tone, even as he sent the car sliding to the left, kicking up dirt as they once again abandoned blacktop for grass.

Dean shrugged, as Sam's eyes collided with his. "It's holy ground…kinda." At Sam's raised eyebrows, he defended, "Hey, crossing holy ground sent Cyrus's ghost packing."

Putting unshakeable trust in Dean, Sam pushed the '57 Chevy harder, sent it barreling over the uneven fairgrounds on a straight route to the makeshift church tent. Behind them the Impala went nearly airborne as she came out of a small valley in the ground but as her tires hit the ground, she leapt forward like a wild thing, gaining on them, again her grill inching toward the '57. "Hang on!" Sam ordered as he plowed into the tent's side. The '57 struck chairs, sending some crashing onto the hood and others flying left and right like the parting of the Red Sea. "Crap!" Sam cursed as the podium was dead center in his path. As he turned the wheel left, the big car fishtailed, hit the podium on it's rear left panel but continued to slide out the other side of the tent. Righting the wheel, Sam sank his foot against the gas pedal, sent the car tearing away from the tent and the Impala in its midst.

Turning around in his seat, regardless of the pain it evoked, Dean watched the Impala follow them out of the tent, its grill nudging theirs and then the Impala started to drop back, was losing its momentum. His eyes shooting to the driver's side, he saw that the car was empty, knew, when the Impala coasted to a stop, that Barton was no longer in possession of his car. Was most likely gone, forever.

Watching the same event in the rearview mirror as Dean, Sam brought the '57 Chevy to a stop and put it firmly into park. Turning in his seat, he leaned against the seat beside Dean and they both watched the Impala warily. Looking to Dean, he posed, "You think that's it? That Barton's gone?"

"Yeah, I think Barton's gone off to that big racing track …down below," Dean lowly returned, a bitter yet pleased smile on his face as he turned around, sank back again the seat in relief. Giving the Impala one last inspecting look, Sam turned around too, gave a sigh as he rested his head back against the '57's seat, his pose matching Dean's. For a minute companionable silence enveloped them, too many emotions overlaying each other to convey their victory, their survival.

With a grimace, Dean sat up straighter and looked at Sam's shadowed profile, watched as Sam's head rolled toward him, could envision his brother's curious expression that the darkness hid. "Before I see the full damage to my baby…great driving, Sammy!" Dean praised, patting Sam's chest with his left hand. "Looks like more than one Winchester could be a NASCAR contender."

Sam laughed and lightly scoffed "Yeah, right," but he felt warmth flow through him at the compliment, at the tender pride in his brother's words. Then he heaved himself upright and opened the car door, causing the interior lights to come on. Turning in his seat to fully face Dean, he saw Dean for the first time in unfiltered light and felt his face crumble with concern at the pallor of his brother's complexion, the dullness in his eyes and the way he held himself, as if everything hurt.

Easily reading Sam's distraught, worried, expression, Dean reassured, "I'm alright," but his tone was pained, slightly breathless and inexplicably tired, the adrenaline leaving him as quickly as it had come.

Spotting the smear of blood on the passenger headrest, Sam reached over and gently touched the back of Dean's head, felt the cut there, watched as Dean stoically didn't react. Running his hand along Dean's ribs, he jerked when Dean groaned. "Sorry," he breathed in apology, hating that his touch had caused his brother further hurt. "Broken or cracked?"

"You talking about my head or my ribs?" Dean joked back, a wan smile turning up his lips.

"Ribs. I know you're head's broken, been broken for _years_," Sam countered, the light banter relieving some of the tension and worry…just like Dean had planned. But he didn't relent on the question, kept his intense gaze locked with Dean's.

Knowing by the look in his brother's eyes that Sam wasn't going to abandon his line of questioning, Dean qualified, "Just bruised." The statement earned him a glare from Sam. "Sam, I know the difference."

"Bet you do," Sam grumbled, hating that Dean was a walking encyclopedia of medical emergency procedures…many learned by his own personal experience. "How are your lungs? Your breathing sounds labored."

"Gee, I can't guess why. This gig has been all about rest and relaxation. And playing hit and run and bumper cars with the Impala, it's been awesome," Dean sarcastically deflected. But at the look of heightened concern in Sam's eyes, he threatened, "Sam, I swear if you lay your head against my chest to listen to my breathing, I'll pull a clump of your hair right out. I mean it, man," his eyes confirming his sincerity.

For a moment, Sam considered pressing the issue, suggesting a hospital trip, but he knew right then and there he didn't have any leverage against Dean's stubbornness. "Fine. Let's go check the Impala, make sure Barton's really gone," he placated as he got out of the car, started to walk to the Impala. But his pace was worthy of a tortoise as he looked over the roof of the car, waited to see Dean's departure of the car, was geared to fly to his brother's side and help him. He wasn't ready to hear his brother's voice to come from the '57 vehicle in a whinny, growl.

"Door's wedged," Dean grumbled as he pulled more forcefully on the doorknob. Without thought, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The impact did nothing for the stuck door however, the contact reverberated though his body, had him clenching his teeth, crossing his hands over his chest and bowing forward in his seat.

Quickly stalking over to the passenger door, Sam scowled at the scrapped and dented metal on that side of the car even as he reached for the door handle. At the sight of Dean's hunched posture, he instantly put his hands against the passenger window, leaned down as close to his brother as he could with the window and door a barrier. "Dean, are you alright? Are you having more trouble breathing? Are you feeling sick?" he asked in a rush. Dean's weak, almost petulant one word reply of "no" wasn't all that helpful. "No, you're not alright?!" his panic skyrocketing.

Dean shook his head, but it was the only movement he offered as he mumbled, "No to your other questions."

Not believing Dean for a second, anger surged in Sam at his brother's deflection, at Dean's notion that he needed to maintain his barriers around him. Lifting his left leg and positioning it against the side of the car, Sam wrapped his hand around the door handle and pulled, drawing on the energy of his raging emotions. When the door gave way, swung open, he stumbled backwards, almost fell.

At the creak of the fifty year old metal, Dean raised his head to see the door swing open, watched as Sam agilely kept himself upright. With tiredness seeping into every muscle he owned, it was an effort to move his right leg from the car, to turn in his seat. Before he could even contemplate standing, Sam was there, his big hand wrapping around his right bicep, lending his strength as Dean came to his feet. Wincing at the ache that went up his left leg, Dean latched onto Sam's right arm to steady himself, saw the deep concern evident in Sam's eyes even amid the weak moonlight. Mentally brushing that aside, Dean asked, looking around the quiet, still fairgrounds, "Getting any vibes, ghost whisperer?"

Ignoring Dean's name calling, Sam shook his head, quietly replied, "Nothing. Course I didn't feel Barton on the track before he showed up either."

"Freakin' eavesdropping ghosts. Hate them," Dean mockingly growled, a smile doing a hit and run on his face before his eyes fell onto the immobile Impala. Then a grimace settled on his features. "_Ah man_, I don't even have the heart to look at her right now."

"You don't have to, just sit back down here and I'll…" Sam said quickly, gently, ready to guide Dean back to the '57's interior. But Dean's one handed grip on his left arm tightened, stopped any motion he would have made.

"No, I need to see the damage…" Dean quietly insisted, eyes on the Impala, on the thing that had nearly been the instrument of his death, of Sam's death. He released his grip on Sam and started to pull out of his brother's hold.

Stepping into Dean's path, Sam vowed, "We'll fix her, Dean," his eyes holding Dean's, wanting to give Dean that reassurance first, before Dean saw the damage, felt heartbreak at the abuse something he loved had taken in their newest battle. Wanted to make it clear that the Impala wasn't going to be added to the tally of the things Dean had lost, had sacrificed for the good of the fight

"We?" Dean challenged, a quirk of his eyebrows.

Having already foreseen Dean's argument, Sam shrugged, a smile in place, "I'll scavenger for parts, use my 'puppy dog eyes' to barter on the prices."

"And help me pound out the dents, and replace the parts we need and do test drives with her," Dean insisted with a light in his eyes, wanting his partnership with Sam to be better, to be stronger, to be more about brotherhood than rank and roles.

Finding himself smiling from ear to ear at his brother's insistent words, Sam was internally mocking himself for feeling so pathetically happy at getting coerced into repairing a _car_. But down deep Sam knew it was about repairing more than that, was about repairing something invaluable to him, apparently invaluable to Dean, was about repairing _them_, their bond, their brotherhood.

Sam slipped to the side then, allowed Dean to do a slow walk to the Impala as he paced him, hands ready to lend their support should it be needed. Reaching the car, Sam was selfishly grateful that it was too dark to see the true extent of the damage to the Impala.

"Call Garner, Sam. Tell him Barton Nelson's been permanently banned from racing," Dean instructed as he stepped closer to the Impala, began running his hands down the side of the car to assess the damage by touch.

"Dean.." Sam began in protest, not giving a crap about calling Garner, about easing that man's mind, not after his treatment of Dean. Even relished the idea that Garner would continue to live in fear, wondering when the next attack would come. It wouldn't be a fair exchange for him laying blame on Dean's shoulders for Rook's death but it would at least be a _start. _But when Dean's eyes came up to meet his, Sam knew, even amid the '57's highlight beams, that Dean would not choose to be that callus, didn't want _him_ to be that callus. That Dean held grudges against people, sure, people that hurt his little brother, his family, innocent strangers, but never people that _hurt_ him. For those people he had a seemingly endless well of forgiveness. Sam knew that first hand…just like his Dad did. "Fine," he grumbled ill-naturedly and stalked away, wanting the conversation to be private, to not be regulated by Dean's perception of how Garner deserved to be treated.

A few minutes later after disconnecting his call to Garner, Sam strode back to the Impala. He found Dean crouched down by the driver's side door, hands almost caressing the war wounds as he _apologized _tothe car.

"Sorry, baby, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made so we can fight another day. Hey, I know you've already sacrificed a lot but so have I. But we're both still here, still running and that says…"

"Are you consoling a car?" Sam laughed, hands on his hips as he looked down at his obviously unbalanced older sibling. But Dean's voice had been quiet, soothing, struck a chord within Sam that made his throat tighten. Reminded him of the times when he was hurt or scared as a kid and that sound, Dean's _voice_, was enough to make him believe everything would be alright. '_It still does,_' he realized, smiling wider at Dean, sure his affection for his brother was there in his eyes for anyone to see.

Without looking up at Sam, Dean snapped, "Shut up."

At Dean's comeback, Sam felt more of his worry and tension slip away because _that_ tone he remembered too. It reassured him that Dean would be alright, was battered and bruised but he wasn't going anywhere.

Switching his inspection from the Impala to Sam, Dean gave a short laugh. Enjoying Sam's crinkled forehead of confusion, he came to his feet, not protesting Sam's supportive grip on his right elbow. "Dude, with that gunpowder on your face you seriously look like a demented clown: Ronald McDeath or Smokey the Clown. Oh no, I got your show biz name: Now entering the Big Top, Cinder Sam!"

"Yeah, funny, I'm laughing on the inside," Sam deadpanned back. He kept his hold on Dean's elbow as they both stood looking at the Impala. "Is it bad?" he asked quietly, gently, like he was asking about the condition of a relative in the ER.

"Sides are scraped up, grill's a little dented, bumper and trunk are fine. Didn't check the engine but we can both attest that she wasn't showing any problems," Dean revealed, chagrin and pride and humor shifting in his tone.

"Ah, no, clean bill of health on that area," Sam agreed. Turning his look from the Impala to Dean, he began to apologize, "Dean, I'm sorry. I should have…"

Bringing his full focus onto Sam, Dean interrupted, his voice gentle but firm, "Don't apologize for saving our lives, Sam."

"I didn't do it alone, Dean," Sam returned instantly, eyes meeting Dean's, needing his brother to realize that he couldn't have done it without him.

But Sam's devotion only made Dean feel ten ways a fool for his actions on the job, for treating it like a solo gig, for pushing Sam aside so he could reach for a dream that wasn't meant to be. He shuttered to think what would have happened tonight if he hadn't pulled his head out of his butt and worked together with Sam, was the partner Sam expected him to be, deserved him to be. "Yeah, about that, I'm sorry I've been such a jerk, going it alone…"

"It's alright, Dean. I know what racing means to you," Sam softly said, forgiveness in his eyes even as jealous and fear of abandonment sprang to life in him all over again. His offer to let Dean go was still on the table, the outcome having been pre-empted by Barton.

At his brother's words, Dean pulled his look from Sam, dropped his eyes again to the Impala's war wounds, couldn't face Sam, not even in the weak light. "Yeah? You want to explain it to me?" Dean replied, a bitter, vulnerable laugh coming from him. He felt that familiar confusion surging in him, about a million things: his father's death, his place with Sam, his place in the world without Sam, his worthiness to even be _alive_.

"Dean…" Sam gently said, protesting, pleading, just hurting at the catch in his brother's voice, the lost look in his eyes. Then Dean looked away and he wished he knew how to heal what was broken in his brother.

Not wanting Sam to feel the need to play his therapist, to be his champion, Dean cut in, eyes coming again to alight on Sam, "What I do know, Sam, is you and me, we make a pretty good team."

"Yeah, we do," Sam readily returned. "We always have," he added, knowing in his heart how true the words were, knew that there was no one he would rather have at his side or have his back than Dean, no matter the situation. "But the next time stunt driving is required, you're the designated driver, Dean."

Laughing, Dean smiled. "You got yourself a deal, little brother…as long as the next gig that takes place in a plane, you do solo," he qualified, earning him a raised eyebrow of protest from Sam. Before Sam could reply, he gave Sam's ribs a nudge with his elbow, "You going to drive me home or is your taxi service over?"

"What?!" Sam exclaimed, totally caught off guard by the request. "You want me to drive?!..._The Impala?!" _But the next moment, panic flared in him. If Dean was asking him to drive, just how hurt was he?! "I thought you said you were alright?!" he nearly accused, stepping in front of Dean, worried eyes scanning Dean's as his other hand latched around Dean's elbow, securing his hold on his brother.

"I **am** alright…" Dean stubbornly insisted with a scowl but, an instant later, a smirk began emerging on his pale features. "But you need to start re-earning the Impala's trust as soon as possible. Everyone knows, there is nothing more deadly than a woman scorned, Sammy," he taunted. When Sam groaned, hastily released him and nearly stomped over to the Impala's driver's side, his smirk blossomed into a full wattage smile. Though he and Sam had each traveled some solitary roads to get where they were going, they were finally back on track, together, like it was meant to be.

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TBC

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Well, I have a few loose ends that I would like to tie up. Hope you'll join me for it.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.

PS: For anyone waiting for an update to 'It's in the Genes', I plan on working on the next chapter this week.


	12. Repairs and Reassessments

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Instead of making one huge last chapter and making you wait longer for it, I've decided to split it up.

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Chapter 12: Repairs and Reassessments

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Parking the Impala in front of his motel room, Sam cut the engine and turned to his brother's silent, shadowed profile. Inexplicably he felt reluctant to enter the room, to abandon the safe confines of the car, its unintentional betrayal that night not withstanding. Selfishly didn't want Dean to have any room to roam from him, didn't want Dean to have space to think about his offer to let him go. Bleakly, Sam knew his barriers weren't fortified enough to endure the onslaught of pain if Dean chose to leave him behind. Because, though Dean had talked about being a team, those same words had been his words of goodbye at Stanford, had echoed in his ears even as he turned around, headed back to his apartment, to Jess, to a safe life, a life that had no room in it for his brother.

Sam's breath hitched at the comparison, at how unconceivable it felt to imagine not having his brother in his life, to not _wanting_ his brother in his life. At his change in breathing, Dean looked to him, but Sam couldn't see his brother's face amid the darkness, couldn't read if there was worry and reassurance or sorrow and pity for him in his brother's expression. Found he didn't want to know, not so soon. Grimly, he got out of the Impala, headed to the trunk and retrieved the first aid kit. When he heard Dean's door creak open, he quickly snapped the trunk shut and stalked to his brother, watched with admiration and reproof as Dean pushed himself from the car onto his feet through willpower and stubbornness. Stalking forward, Sam stopped beside Dean and they shared a look before they headed for the motel room, Dean's slight limp disrupting their usual synchronized gait.

Unlocking the motel room, Sam swung the door open, nodded for Dean to proceed him into the room, watched as Dean slowly walked inside and headed toward the bed like he was completing the last steps on a thousand mile journey. "No, Dean," Sam softly denied, quickly stepping forward, wrapping his hand around Dean's right arm to stop his brother's exhausted motion. "Bathroom," he directed gently, starting to pull the wounded man toward that destination.

Without sparing energy to look to Sam, Dean mumbled in protest, "I don't have to go to the bathroom, mom," his exhaustion making the words slow and without bite.

"Good 'cause that I don't want to see," Sam returned, his lips turning up a little. Maneuvering a frighteningly docile Dean inside the bathroom and onto the closed toilet seat, Sam sat the first aid kit on the countertop and crossed to the shower. Pushing back the shower curtain, he turned on the hot water.

"I'm not showering, dude. I don't care how bad I stink," Dean rallied, finding the energy to put more firmness in his words, to dredge up some steel to put in his eyes as he watched Sam.

"I turned it on for the stream, to help ease some of the tightness in your chest," Sam revealed as he closed the bathroom door and came back to Dean. For a moment, he stood there assessing Dean.

Tilting his head up to view Sam's expression, Dean was determined to hold out, to let the silence stand, to beat Sam in the stare down. But a moment later, he grumbled, "What?" unable to bear the silent inspection.

"Where should I start? Head, ribs or leg? What hurts the most?" But as Dean opened his mouth, Sam held up his hand, forestalling his brother's bravado. "Nothing. Nothing hurts, right? You're just fine. Now the Impala, the _car_ I should be worried about fixing," he shot back, voice rising with his frustration, with his brother's refusal to open up, to take care of himself, to believe that he _deserved_ to be taken care of.

Hoping to defuse his brother's anger, Dean dredged up a smile. "Well, yeah, the Impala's older than me, can't handle the abuse as much anymore."

"You're not as young as you used to be either, Dean. There was a time when you would have done a better job dodging the car," Sam countered, finding anger surging in him at the memories of his brother foolishly playing matador to his classic black car, leaping out of its path at the last possible moment.

"Thanks for adding insult to injury," Dean muttered, eyes dropping from Sam's, embarrassed that his slow reaction time had caused him to lose some of his little brother's respect. If Sam didn't trust him on a hunt, if he thought he wasn't pulling his own weight….

Quickly pouncing on his brother's confession, Sam drawled "Ah…so you admit you _are_ injured?" the concern in his eyes removing any sharpness to the accusation.

"The blood and the limping and the fact that I let you shove me around…those are pretty good clues even for a detective in training like you, Sammy," Dean sarcastically volleyed back. But he groaned when his words were rewarded by a smug looking Sam presenting him with two painkillers and a glass of water. Crap, he had fallen right into Sam's manipulations like a prize chump. Gauging the determined set to Sam's jaw, Dean realized that further protesting would only increase his headache, would do absolutely nothing to sway Sammy from his nursemaid routine. With annoyance, he roughly grabbed the glass of water and obediently took the pills, found it almost condescending when Sam took the water glass from his hand and put it safely back on the counter.

After thoroughly washing his hands, Sam pulled his needed supplies from the first aid kit and crossed back to Dean, his plan of action set. Slipping between his brother and the bathtub, Sam claimed a seat on the tub rim and sat his supplies on the floor. "Turn toward the countertop," he calmly ordered, wasn't surprised that it earned him a token disgruntle look from Dean before his brother followed his instructions. Reaching up, he gently parted the patch of Dean's hair that was stiff with blood, bent close to inspect the source of the bleeding wound. "Cut doesn't look deep, probably doesn't need stitches," he narrated his exam, lightly skimming his fingers over Dean's scalp to further assure himself that the cut wasn't serious. But instead of relief, a scowl sprang to his features. "You've got a big goose egg back here though. Do I want to know what you hit your head on?"

"Impala's windshield," Dean supplied quietly, barely kept himself from wincing when Sam's fingers pressed on the unmistakable source of his agonizing headache.

Internally flinching at the information, pretty sure he knew when the contact had been made, Sam forced his inspecting fingers to venture over the rest of Dean's scalp even as he hoped he came up empty. "Well it's only the one spot," he breathed out in moderate relief, hands falling from Dean's head.

"Yeah, goody," Dean mumbled, able to breathe a little better when Sam's fingers left his head, removed the slight pressure they generated to a skull that was threatening to explode.

"Alright bend your head forward, let me wash it out," Sam quietly instructed, coming to his feet to tower over Dean, the antiseptic bottle in hand. Watching Dean obediently do his bidding, Sam again parted his brother's hair and squeezed some of the antiseptic into the wound. Though the solution bubbled, Dean was rock steady, no reaction to the burning, to the pain. But Sam wasn't sure if he admired his brother for his stoicism or felt like a chasm was again opening up under his feet, that Dean was again fortifying his walls, was planning to again board himself up…away from Sam, from the pain of their life, of their father's death. Sam dropped his hand onto Dean's shoulder, gripped it, unconsciously trying to hold onto his brother, to not be shut out, to not be left behind.

Surprised by Sam's uncharacteristic grip on his shoulder, Dean jolted slightly at the touch. He preempted Sam's worried call of his name with a gruff, "I'm fine…"

Having stilled his actions at Dean's startled reaction, Sam hesitated, stood there, wishing he could see Dean's hidden face, wished more that he could just know what his brother was thinking, what he wanted from him, wondered bitterly if he would give it to him even if he knew. Shaking himself from his dark thoughts, Sam recapped the antiseptic bottle and sat it on the floor, braced himself for what came next.

"I'm going to look at your back…" Sam warned, watched as his brother sat up straight, bent his head down and began working to undo the buttons on his shirt. When Dean began shrugging out of the shirt, he had to clench his jaw from protesting, from making the offer to help which he knew Dean would reject. Unable to coldly watch as Dean's efforts obviously racketed up his exhaustion, Sam reached out, pulled on the cuff of the long sleeve shirt to free Dean's arm from the fabric, was rewarded with a typical rebuttal.

"I got it," Dean groused, hating that Sam perceived him as helpless, that he _felt_ helpless, that the simple act of removing his shirt was a study of agony as his muscles screamed in protest, as his head seemed willing to roll free when he shifted it a little, as his ribs seemed to be coiling around his insides, constricting his lungs, restricting his ability to just breathe.

Knowing that Dean would only accept so much help from him, Sam retreated, dropped his hands from Dean, knew he had bigger battles to win. His logic didn't make it any easier for him to watch as his brother struggled to remove the shirt. When the long sleeve shirt was off, he almost breathed a sigh of relief until he saw Dean grip the bottom of his t-shirt, knew Dean was going to try and pull the shirt over his head, regardless of the agony that action would cause him. He obstructed that grim show by biting out, "Leave it on, Dean."

"Thought you wanted to see my back? You add X-Ray vision to your superpowers, Sammy?" Dean tauntingly challenged, hating that his words were coming out breathless, that the small action of removing his shirt had hurt like a mother, had squandered away whatever free flowing air he had in his chest.

Worry hiked in Sam's own chest at the distressed sound of Dean's intake/outtake of air. Knowing from experience that showcasing worry to Dean, expecting his brother to forego his big brother, invincible facade was a hopeless wish, Sam returned smart aleck comment for smart aleck comment. "Yeah, and I found out what I always knew…you're the man without a brain." Knowing Dean was distracted by the need to parry his playful insult, Sam took that moment to carefully push Dean's T-shirt up. "Oh crap, Dean," he exhaled in sympathy and concern at the livid bruising that covered his brother's back like a perverse tattoo.

"Does it look like that crappy spin art picture you did when we were at Wildwood?" Dean sallied, trying to lighten the mood, to remove the concern so evident in Sam's tone.

Swallowing, putting his concern, his regret under more layers, Sam did what Dean needed him to: he made light of his pain, of the brutal cost of doing the right thing, of the stark knowledge that they could have died tonight doing their 'job'. "No, it looks more like your 7th grade art picture of a tiger, you know the one I said my puking on it would be an improvement to."

"Jealously doesn't become you," Dean lowly shot back, grateful for Sam's barb, that his brother was giving him the diversion he needed to keep the pain at bay.

Wanting to prepare Dean for his next actions, Sam informed, "I know you said your ribs are just bruised but I'm going to check them when I check your back, just to make sure." Expecting a protest from Dean, Sam stilled at the silence. "You still with me?" he hurriedly asked, hand shooting out to wrap around Dean's right bicep.

"Ah, yeah, Sam. I'm sitting right here," Dean mockingly answered, raising his bowed head, knowing that any movement from him would reassure Sam that he was OK, would help take away that scared note he heard in his brother's voice. "What, you think I'm off astroplaning again?"

Whatever succor Dean's initial response gave to Sam the astroplaning joke shattered. The joke cut too deep, the question conjured up memories that Sam struggled, daily, to bury. Memories of Dean lying in a coma while his 'spirit' went on walk about, taking on reapers, almost leaving him behind, forever.

Easily hearing the audible catch in Sam's breathing, Dean sat up straighter, realized too late that some things were too raw for jokes. "Sorry, didn't mean to go there," he sincerely apologized, surprised and touched that his time in the coma still had an effect on his brother.

Biting his lip a moment to make sure he didn't speak, that a sound of weakness didn't escape him, Sam nodded his head, though Dean couldn't see the reaction. With hands steady from long experience of testing and tending to injuries, Sam slid his hands under the front of his brother's shirt and carefully traced each of Dean's ribs from back to front with his fingers.

At his seemingly aloof inspection, he couldn't help clenching his teeth, afraid of what further injuries he would uncover, hating the pain he was meting out to his brother, dreading the flinch that was bound to come, straining to hear the raw catch in his brother's breathing that could erupt any second. Preparing to let Dean's pain wash over him like it meant nothing, to think he could shut it out, would not react, would not skitter away, it was a study of futility, was proven that when his fingers brushed against his brother's deeply bruised ribs and a shudder of pain vibrated through Dean. Instantly he jerked his hands from his brother, removed his hurtful touch, clenched his hands into fists as self loathing ran rampant through him.

It seemed a Winchester curse, that every action taken by any of them to heal each other only ended up in causing further pain…his taking Dean to the faith healer, him loading Dean and his father into that Impala to get them to the hospital, him practically forcing Dean to open up to him about their father's death. Spectacular successful failures, all of them in their own insidious way. Made him doubt that he could do right by Dean, that he could ever do anything other than hurt the ones he loved….his mom, Jessica, his dad….Dean. Consciously and unconsciously, he had hurt them all.

"What? Did my insurance coverage run out? Thought this was a free clinic?" Dean drawled, unsettled by Sam's quiet, somehow hurt by the quick withdraw of his brother's touch, worried at the rising tension coming from the presence at his back.

Tears almost sprang to Sam's eyes. That was his brother for him, always throwing out life rafts for him, always building bridges across expansions that seemed impassable, always forgiving him for whatever harm he caused, intentional and unintentional alike. "It's a cheap clinic but not a free one," Sam returned, finding his voice, finding his path again as he settled his hands onto his brother's wounded body, turned his ministrations onto his brother's livid back. "I figure you're going to owe me about six hours of music of my choice." His fingers coming to rest on the discolored, bruised skin, he felt Dean's body go taut under his touch. But Dean didn't skitter away from the upcoming pain, merely bowed forward further, trustingly offering up his curved back to his brother's capable hands.

Reaching out to grasp the edge of the bathroom's countertop, Dean braced himself for the heightened pain to come. Knew Sam had barely touched him, that he had to bear down if he didn't want to convey to Sam just how badly his examination hurt him. Aware that he had to protest, that it was what Sam expected out of him, needed from him, he refuted, "Six, no," his voice a low rumble, pain and his bowed head distorting his usual baritone. "Two. Two hours."

At his brother's counter offer, Sam forced a snort from his dry mouth. Then, resolutely, he began to press on the bruises marring his brother's torso, to determine the extent of the damage, even as he prayed that he wouldn't uncover any indications of internal injury. Felt insane gratitude for Dean's rock steadiness during his inspection, felt shame at needing that coddling, that deception from Dean just as sharply. A few minutes later, he removed his trembling hands from Dean's back, exhaled. "I couldn't feel any breaks or internal injuries." Surprised when his announcement didn't garner an 'I told you so' reply, Sam stilled, let his heightened senses uncover what had his heart racing. Then he heard it, above the splash of water against the shower floor: Dean's ragged breathing.

Cursing, Sam came to his feet, quickly skirted around Dean and bent down beside his brother. His hand unconsciously sliding onto Dean's knee, Sam took in his brother's profile, saw that Dean's eyes were closed, that his face was slick with sweat, his hands were braced against the side of the sink's countertop in a white-knuckled grip and his every breath was nearly a wheeze.

"Oh man, I'm sorry. I should have let you lie down. Come on," the words rushing from Sam as he wrapped his hand around Dean's right wrist. But it was a moment before Dean released his death grip on the countertop and allowed his arm to be pulled over his brother's shoulders. Sliding his left hand low over Dean's left hip so as to not make connection with any bruising, he stood up, pulled Dean with him. Stepping toward the shower, he lowered Dean to sit on the bathtub's rim and leaned him back cautiously against the wall beside the faucets. Claiming a seat on the rim in front of Dean, keeping one hand on Dean's right shoulder, he used his other hand to draw the curtain back and around them, to enclose them into the steam cocoon of the shower.

Sam cupped the left side of Dean's neck with his hand as much to keep Dean upright as to offer a connection to Dean, a kindness, a gentleness. Saw Dean's eyes slip open at the gesture, could see the green gaze was hazy with pain, with exhaustion but met his own gaze unerringly. "Dean, did the hospital give you any medication? Do you have a prescription for anything?"

"No," Dean managed to get out, felt pride at the accomplishment because it felt like the Impala was parked on his chest and he was holding onto consciousness by the most tenuous grip.

"No, you don't have any medication or no, you didn't fill the prescription?" Sam pressed, knowing his brother well enough to know that there were loopholes in the one worded statement.

Dean tried to smirk, but by Sam's hard swallow and worried look, he knew the gesture had failed. He tried instead to reassure with words. "No …to both," he croaked out, fighting the tickle in his throat but his resistance only made his first cough sputter harder from his tight chest, made the other coughs follow on its heels, bowing him forward as they tore any tendril of air from his lungs.

Frantically, Sam slid close enough to catch his brother in his arms as Dean tilted forward, allowed his brother's head to rest on his collarbone as the coughs ripped unmercifully through his brother's frame. One arm bracing Dean's lower back, Sam's hand cupped the base of Dean's neck, holding onto his brother, praying for the attack to pass. "Easy, Dean, easy. The steam will work, alright, we have just got to give it a little more time," he soothed, hoping he was right, that his brother's pain would soon be gone. "Crap you sound like that time Dad made you smoke that cigar…for medicinal purposes," he joked, desperate to refocus Dean's attention, to refocus his own panic into something useful, something that could help Dean.

But Dean couldn't join in on Sam's trip down memory lane, not when his latest batch of coughs were becoming longer, made him wonder how long he could go without air before he was asphyxiated. '_I'm not going out in a bathroom. It ain't happening like that.'_ Fisting his hand onto the sleeve of Sam's shirt, he anchored himself to Sam, drew strength from his brother's presence.

Fear racketed higher in Sam as Dean shook harder in his arms, as the coughing continued to erupt from his brother in unrelenting waves, allowing no air to seep into his brother's lungs. Abandoning compassion and first aid knowledge and everything except his own needs, he pushed Dean off his shoulder, cruelly slammed Dean's back against the wall. The choked cry of pain from Dean at the impact was a victory of sorts, as it cut off a lung starving cough. Fisting his hands in Dean's shirt, Sam pulled Dean up straighter against the wall, knocked him against the wall again but with less force. "Stop screwing around and breathe, Dean!" he snarled, felt vindicated for his rough treatment when Dean drew in a labored but real breath of air and his green eyes opened, met his own. Felt himself go weak with relief when Dean's gave another breath, this one wheezed but full, unmarred by a cough, Dean's eyes remaining fixed on his as he rested limply back against the wall. Settling his open palm over Dean's heart, keeping Dean in place even as he kept himself together as he encouraged, "Yeah, just keep breathing, Dean. Take shallow breaths. It will get easier, I promise."

A small cough mingled in Dean's following breath but his next was unfiltered, sounded better to Sam's ears than anything had. "As soon as you stop acting like a girl about to faint, I'm going to fill the prescription I _know_ the hospital gave you. And whatever it is, you're taking it, Dean." At Dean's weak but visible look of protest, Sam cut in, "Shut up Dean, you're taking it." Sliding his hand to Dean's neck, he took his pulse.

"'m still alive?" Dean croaked out, the wane smile on his white face like a fireworks display for Sam.

Sam couldn't help smirking and shaking his head, sliding his hand down to Dean's chest he gave it a gentle pat but didn't speak. They were both going to live.

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"Sam, I'm fine," Dean insisted, his words edged with irritation, as he struggled to sit up on the bed, his movement shifting the icepack from his leg.

"Yeah, cause nearly dying in the shower, that was just for kicks," Sam shot back, standing at Dean's bedside, cruelly letting Dean think he was making progress before he put his hand on his brother's shoulder, easily pinned him back to the mattress. Giving the shoulder under his hand a gentle push, he removed his touch, looked down at Dean, his gaze inspecting, unknowingly biting his bottom lip in indecision.

"I didn't nearly _die_ in the shower, drama queen," Dean denied heatedly, eyes burning into his brother's.

"Right, it was on the rim of the _bathtub_," Sam countered, refusing to downplay his panic or the seriousness of his brother's attack.

"Sam…" Dean growled in warning, in exasperation.

Knowing that he honestly couldn't win, not when Dean's defenses were slowly rebuilding themselves from the coughing attack two hours ago, Sam loosened his stance over his brother, shook his head in defeat and annoyance. "Ok, you're fine, I'm fine. So you'll be just great while I go out for awhile," he said as he turned around, snatched his coat off the other bed.

Watching Sam head for the door, Dean demanded, "Where are you going?" his voice still husky from abuse.

"To hook up with some hot chick…" Sam shot back without slowing his pace for the door. Dean knew exactly where he was going, that he was going to do what he had threatened to do.

"Bars are all closed, Sammy."

Hand on the doorknob, Sam froze, heard, not a challenge in his brother's voice but a sigh, almost an entreaty for the truth. Turning around, Sam saw Dean hadn't abandoned his prone position on the bed, was conceding to Sam's wishes and his body's. But Dean had rolled his head to track his motions and Dean's eyes met his own unflinchingly. "You know where I'm going, Dean," he quietly said, didn't want this to be an argument but knew just as certainly he wouldn't change his mind.

"I don't need it," Dean briskly reassured but Sam looked away from him, the gesture calling him on the lie better than any words his little brother would dare utter. "I am better, Sam," he stated, knew that, at least, was the truth.

At the admission, Sam met Dean's eyes again, knew his brother was trying his best to settle his little brother's fears. "What if our roles were reversed, Dean? Tell me you wouldn't be leaving right now to get me medicine," his words soft yet unyielding, his eyes imploring Dean to see his side of this, inviting him to read his fear that had not totally dissipated, would only when Dean's breathing was unstilted, was nearly inaudible again.

Sam's logic reminded him of the Pastor's logic, invited him to imagine Sam in the hospital, Sam in a bathroom, desperate for breath. Neither image did one dot of good loosening the tightness in his chest. And Sam's imploring look…Dean had little defenses against it, never had. "It can wait until morning, Sam. It's what.. 3am," Dean lightly countered, giving in slightly, watching Sam's body language for an indication of Sam's reply.

Pulling the written prescription from his pocket, Sam waved it in his hand, "It's already waited, Dean. You were supposed to fill this two days ago. Heck, you are probably still supposed to be in the hospital," his voice rising at the thought that his guess might be right.

Deflecting, Dean accused with a smirk, "And where did you get that prescription? Rifling through my personal possessions is a no-no, Sam."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if you were upfront with me, Dean. I don't need you to be invincible dude. What I want is for you to take care of yourself, for you to admit that this…" Sam broke off his words, unintentionally treading where he hadn't planned to go. But Dean's eyes held his with confusion, prodded him on. "It's not a betrayal, Dean, wanting something better for yourself, for your life. Not to me."

Unprepared for the change in topic, Dean ripped his eyes from Sam, focused on his hands lying on his stomach but he could sense Sam stepping back towards him, determined to have this conversation that he honestly couldn't handle right now. "Dad wouldn't…" he croaked out, eyes burning at the thought of his Dad, at his father's sacrifice for him, to make sure he saved Sam, continued hunting.

It was the objection Sam had been waiting for but the sound of Dean's broken voice was something he hadn't guarded himself against. "Dad was proud of me, right?" he countered, his own voice rough, owing no credit to smoke inhalation. His words got Dean's eyes flying to his, intrigued. "You said he was proud of me even though I went to college, abandoned hunting…the life he wanted me to live. And he still checked up on me, right? When I was at college. Still cared about me…about my safety. I was still his son…even though I chose a difference path than he would have chosen for me."

"That was different.." Dean refuted, looked away again, words echoing in his head, words in his father's voice. '_Sam, he's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight it's more concern than he's ever shown you_.'  
"How Dean?" Sam demanded, stepping closer to Dean. "We are both his sons…" but then he saw it, the jump in Dean's jaw, the hit the words had. His breath caught in his throat, made his next words low, gentle, "I know he didn't always treat us the same way…."

Dean couldn't help give a small snort at the understatement of the year but he didn't look to Sam, couldn't. Didn't know what he would see in his brother's expression, what truth or what lie.

Stilling at Dean's reaction, Sam let out a held breath. "He loved us both, Dean. And he would want us both to be happy…."

Eyes sliding to Sam's, Dean couldn't hold back his scolding retort, "Happy, yeah, that was on the family agenda."

"It was what Mom wanted for you, for us," Sam quietly lobbed back, saw Dean's flinch and almost felt regret at his choice of weapon even as he pressed his advantage. "Dad said that when you were sad, she did whatever she could to get a smile out of you…sometimes made you your favorite food."

Dean had no defense against Sam's words, had never developed a true defense against memories of his Mom, leaving them with the power to hurt him and heal him alike. He remembered that about his Mom, her warm smile, her tickling him, her bad jokes, her surprising him with his favorite food when he was sad, when he had fallen and scrapped his knee, when he was upset he couldn't go with his Dad to the hardware store. And he knew in his gut, that Sam was right, his mother wanted him to be happy, had always wanted her sons to be happy, for her family to be happy. "But Mom…she's not here, Sam," he said, voice a raw sound, eyes meeting Sam's in sorrow and bitter acceptance.

"It doesn't change what she wanted for you, Dean. It doesn't. And it doesn't change what I want for you. I don't want you to go, God knows I don't want you to go. But I just want….I want you to live your dream, Dean. I want you to be …happy," the word stuck in his throat, at the notion that Dean wasn't happy…couldn't be happy with him.

"Sam…" Dean gently began, hearing the catch in his brother's voice, seeing the tears gathering in Sam's eyes.

"I'll be back," Sam cut in, turning on his heels, stalking for the door, not up to hearing Dean's words, of facing a future without Dean at his side.

The door slammed shut in Sam's wake. Leaning heavily back on the mattress, Dean sighed, "Ah Sam," love and worry and irritation in the two words. How could Sam not see what was so blatant?! Sure, he loved racing but he would never love it more than he loved Sam. His mother had done more than cheer him up when he was sad and make him his favorite foods, she had told him that he should always treasure the people he loved, that having a family was a blessing. A blessing Dean Winchester had no intention of throwing away, not for racing, not for a safe life, not for anything in the world.

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TBC

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Thanks so much for the reviews from last chapter!!

And thanks to everyone out there still reading!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	13. Brothers and Brass Rings

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 13: Brothers and Brass Rings

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Stepping out of the steam filled bathroom, Sam came up short at Dean's empty bed, the sheets still rumpled. Felt the too habitual panicked thud of his heart before he saw the triangle of sunlight coloring the room's floor that had him seeking its source. Quickly looking left, he saw that the motel room door was open and beyond that, Dean was there, was standing beside the Impala, hadn't gone far. '_Yet_' slipped into his head like the hiss of a serpent, tainting his relief.

Swallowing down his fears, Sam crossed soundlessly to the doorway. Leaning his shoulder against the wood, his wet hair causing him to shiver a little in the fall air, he watched Dean slowly crouch down on the driver's side of the Impala, his motions careful, tentative. Knew when a wince contorted his brother's face that Dean was unaware that he was there, a spectator to his pain and his fingers' gentle trace of the Impala's scored metal.

Sam didn't speak, didn't want to disturb either inspection: Dean's inspection of the Impala or his own inspection of Dean. Biting his lip at his inspection's findings, Sam knew, as pale as Dean was in the morning sunlight, it was a marked improvement to his pallor from when he had re-entered the motel room at 4am, prescriptions in hand.

*** Six Hours Prior****

Slipping quietly back into the motel room, Sam instantly knew his internal debate on the ride back to the motel was obsolete. Because, deciding whether or not to wake Dean to give him the medication, to make him take a hit off the inhaler, it wasn't even a consideration, not when the first thing that registered with him as he crossed the room's threshold was the struggling hitch in Dean's labored breathing. But even with that urgency, he had settled his hand gently on Dean's shoulder, called his brother's name with soft entreaty, only gave the cold shoulder under his hand a small shake when no reaction came from Dean.

It was almost ridiculous that he felt such relief at seeing his brother opening his eyes, no matter how dulled the green pupils were from pain and confusion. And Dean's mumbled retort, "Sammy? Crap did you hook up with a nurse or what?" was priceless to Sam, the joke making it easier on him to rouse Dean fully from his sleep.

"Yeah, Dean, I decided to take your prescriptions out in trade," Sam sarcastically shot back even as he pulled Dean's covers down and slipping his hand around Dean's forearm. "You got to sit up for a minute," he gently ordered, giving a tentative pull on Dean's arm. When Dean growled low in his throat, closed his eyes again and seemed to settle more firmly onto the mattress, making it clear that he would not join his efforts to get him upright, Sam sighed. "Come on Dean. I didn't go to the hospital in the middle of the night just for kicks."

His entreaty earning him Dean's eye contact, Sam didn't know what Dean read in his eyes but he knew Dean was going to capitulate to his wishes even before Dean began to sit up. Quickly adding his strength to Dean's efforts, Sam saw the pain crease his brother's brow as Dean slid his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. Claiming a seat beside his brother, Sam felt Dean's eyes on him as he pulled the pill bottle and inhaler from his coat pocket, heard Dean's sharp intake of breath that was a forerunner to a protest…or would have been under better circumstances when Dean's lungs weren't bogged down by residual smoke.

Dean cursed as his protest at the inhaler turned into another painful round of coughing that bent him forward, had Sam wrapping an arm around his chest to deter him from falling on his face. When Sam's other hand began rubbing his back, he wanted to hate the gentle gesture. Told himself instead that he didn't try to elude Sam's ministrations because they had some healing properties attributed to them, that they helped him to remember how to breathe, that air was supposed to slip into his lungs not just leave it like the last train out of Hiroshima. But more than that, Sam's touch proved that he wasn't alone, not in his pain, not in the life he had chosen, the life that had been chosen for him.

Shifting closer to Dean, assuring that he had a good hold on his brother, Sam lifted his hand from Dean's back and reached blindly for the inhaler he had dropped when Dean seemed ready to pitch off the bed. Fingers latching onto the cylinder, he shook the inhaler. Then when the attack weakened and Dean sat up straight, he placed the inhaler in Dean's hand, boldly met his brother's resisting look. "I knew you would gripe about the inhaler but it's the quickest relief, Dean." When Dean's look didn't relent, Sam pulled out all the stops and resorted to little brother whining. "Dean, as much fun as it is watching you nearly being asphyxiated to death or coughing up a lung, I'm tired, man. I for one would like a little sleep tonight."

For a moment, Dean's expression remained impassive, as if his little brother's tactic had failed. Then, with ill grace but purpose, he lifted the inhaler to his mouth.

"You have to.." Sam began to instruct but Dean took the medication expertly, apparently even knew that he shouldn't talk right away after taking a hit on the inhaler, because he only gave Sam a closed mouth smile that charged, 'satisfied?' The knowledge that this might not be Dean's first time using an inhaler made his eyes sharpen on Dean, earning him a scowl of confusion from his brother. Shrugging his shoulders, Sam replied to the unvoiced question, "Nothing. Just seems you're familiar with this routine. Another gap in your medical history I don't know about?"

But Dean's smile morphed from challenging to lascivious and a spark grew in his eye. "A girl?' Sam laughed, understanding. "You dated a girl with Asthma? And you had deep meaningful conversations about her condition and her treatment." Dean's smile held but he didn't make a comment, still waiting out the medication's requirements. "You know what? I don't want to know," Sam deflected as he retrieved the pill bottle from the mattress, opened it and palmed out two pills. He matter-of-factly pulled the inhaler from Dean's grasp and replaced it with the two pills. "Antibiotics: two to be taken every day until they are gone. _Gone_, Dean. Not just until you think I'm no longer keeping an eye on you."

Breaking his silence, Dean challenged, "When aren't you keeping an eye on me Sam? You're perfect stalker material." But he obediently tossed the pills in his mouth, picked up the water on the nightstand and chased the pills with a healthy swallow of it. Putting the glass back onto the stand with a thunk, he turned to Sam. "Are we done here? Can I get some sleep?"

Sam smiled, shook his head in amusement, stood up and headed to the other bed where his duffle bag sat. His head was down, searching for his sleep clothing, when Dean spoke.

"Sam…" Dean began, throat tightening up with emotions this time but when Sam lifted his eyes to his, he faltered. As much as he wanted to tell Sam that he wasn't going anywhere, that Sam was stuck with him, there was a part of him that warned that relief might not be Sam's first reaction, that disappointment or shame or frustration might be. That Sam might think he was a coward, that he didn't have the guts to carve out a life of his own, separate from him, separate from his father's wishes. 'I have a brain. I can think for myself. I'm not _pathetic,_ like you.' Sam's words suddenly echoed in his head, cutting off his breathing, drying up his declaration. Because, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't what Sam really thought about him, part of him knew it was. Sure, Dr. Ellicott had brought the matches to the party, but Sam had unknowingly provided the emotional kerosene.

Stilling, Sam looked to Dean, watched with heartbreak as Dean shut himself down in front of his eyes, bricked up the wall. A wall that, for a second there, Sam had sworn was down. "What Dean?" he asked gently, inside imploring his brother to meet him half way. Heck, to meet him in the doorway, just …meet him.

Pulling on a light smile, Dean said, "Thanks, Sammy, for the midnight medication run."

"Don't mention it," Sam demurred, but he felt sorrow sear into him, knew his smile was weak. Watching Dean crawl back under the covers and close his eyes, Sam felt his own eyes burn. No matter how he tried to express it, Dean couldn't see that he would do anything for him, that there was nothing too great…or too small he wouldn't do if Dean only asked him. That his rebellion was gone, over, done. His bid for freedom from his family at an end, that his notion of normal had changed to Dean and him in the Impala, hitting the road, taking on evil at each other's sides. That whatever evil he had inside himself, he would fight it…because Dean gave him the strength to fight it. '_And what happens if he takes you up on your offer? If he leaves you? If he chooses life…happiness instead of being your protector, your savior? How will you fight the darkness in you then?'_

The answer was a resonating, '_I don't know_.' Even as something deeper in him said the opposite, that he did know, knew only too well. Knew that, without his brother in his life, he would lose his way, that without Dean's easy smile and off color jokes and reassuring presence, his life wouldn't mean much. '_This isn't about me_!' he internally snarled, ripping his nightshirt from his bag, '_This can't be about what Dean's leaving will cost me….it has to be about what staying has already cost Dean. Staying with Dad..and now staying with me._' Sam's eyes rose to land on Dean's now sleeping form and he remembered Dean in his coma, his stillness, his …absence. Sam understood in his gut that his Dad had, in his own way, paid back Dean's loyalty to him by dying in his place, by selling his soul to broker the deal. In comparison, he knew his own proposal to repay Dean was laughable, weak, a thousand times insufficient, '_Yeah, then why does the thought of it make me want to hurl, huh? Make me want to go on the worst bender of my life?! Make me want to beg Dean to let me stay with him, to be his gofer, his press agent, his racing manager..anything as long as I was at his side, that he was at mine, that we weren't traveling this life, alone…like we were strangers.'_

*** Present ****

Shaking himself from the fears that had latched onto him in the darkness, Sam refocused on Dean as he continued his evaluation of the Impala. He was about to make his presence known to his brother when another voice spoke. The surprise visitor had him stepping toward Dean, protective instincts coming on line even when he was presented with a known ally. He wasn't willing to misjudge anyone's intentions toward Dean, not when his brother was hurt.

Having deserted his car at the motel office, Tim walked down the motel's parking lot until he came upon the familiar classic car, recognized Dean's bent down head as his young mechanic friend crouched by the driver's side door. "She doesn't look too bad," he judged, eyes assessing the car as he approached but Dean's slow, obviously painful ascent to his feet snagged his full attention. "Crap," he exclaimed, stepping closer to Dean, hand reaching out to grip the younger man's elbow to steady him. "Garner said your car needed repaired, he didn't tell me you were _hurt_," concern evident in Tim's tone, in his eyes as they met Dean's.

"I'm alright," Dean stated lowly, shifting back a step, dislodging Tim's hold on his elbow. Instantly he felt Sam's presence at his back, cursed himself for not sensing it before, wondered what he had let slip under Sam's silent scrutiny.

Tim let his eyes shift behind Dean, to the tall dark haired man who had posed as a reporter, who was looking at him with a deadly threat in his eyes. He watched as the man, having deserted his post at the door, quickly drew closer to Dean…to his brother. "So, you two are brothers," he drawled, his eyes moving from one brother to the other but his smile assured the two men that his words weren't an accusation just a revelation…like so much had been in the last couple of hours.

Guilt seeped into Dean and he cleared his throat before he spoke, "Tim, I'm sorry. Garner didn't want anyone to know who we were."

"Or what you were?" Tim pointedly said, leaning back against the Impala, his eyes on Dean now, on the person he thought he could read best. Seeing Dean's eyes slide to the right to meet his brother's, who had come to stand at his side, Tim wondered how they had done it, how they could have buried a connection that was like a live wire..even in silence. When Dean faced him again, he knew that, in that one shared glance, a decision had been made between the brothers.

"So you know why Garner hired us?" Dean asked, testing the ground, wondering where his story had to begin to bring Tim up to date.

Tim shook his head but not in ignorance but disbelief, "I know …but I'm still having a hard time believing it. Ghosts?"

"Ghost. One," Dean clarified, and drew in a breath, hating to tarnish a sport Tim loved, to taint the things the older man believed in: sportsmanship, skill willing out, hope. He was surprised and thankful when Sam took up the story instead.

Having sensed Dean's dread, Sam announced, "Nelson Barton's ghost, actually," stepping forward, drewing Tim's full attention on him, away from Dean. "You already know that he was picked by NASCAR, that he was killed in a bike accident before his dreams of going pro could come true. Well, we found out that he died on the Smithfield _track_ and, when people die with unresolved issues, strong emotions still raging in them…"

"They stick around…" Tim concluded, looking to Dean, wanting to see his expression, to see the truth in his eyes.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, sorrow in his eyes, apology in his tone. "He was keeping people safe on the track for a lot of years but then, when NASCAR was set to come knocking…his jealousy got the best of him."

"He caused the wrecks...used his…_ghost powers_ and …he killed Troy. All of them. Rook," Tim stammered, horror creasing his face. But belief cemented into his soul, because, somewhere in the few days that he had known Dean, he had come to trust him, knew that, no matter how ludicrous it all sounded, Dean wasn't lying to him. Not anymore. Not about this.

At the mention of Rook, Dean dropped his eyes from Tim, shuffled against the Impala to lean against her, taking some measure of strength from the only home he had ever known. "Tim, I'm sorry about Rook," he began, forced himself to face the older man's judgment. "I knew what was going on. I should have stopped Rook from getting into that car, should have stopped everyone from getting on that track."

"**You tried**," Sam jumped in, conviction in his tone as he faced Dean, forgot about Tim, about anything but wiping away the guilt Dean was unnecessarily still bearing.

"Not hard enough," Dean shot back, eyes swinging to Sam.

"I saw you," Tim quietly said, his words solemn enough to send both of the brothers' focus to him.

Realizing that Tim's look was locked on him, Dean felt his breath trap in his chest, waited for the condemnation he knew he deserved. At his side, he easily sensed the tautness in Sam's posture, knew Sam was just as ready to defend him from any blame.

"You tried to get to Rook, would have climbed in that burning car to get him out…would have died trying to save a dead man," Tim recalled, remembered, amid his own shock at the accident, watching Dean run for the car, knew in his gut Dean was going to get himself killed trying to rescue Rook, knew just as certainly that Rook was already dead, was beyond saving. "You told Darien not to race, you told all of us to stay off the track. You honestly think telling us the truth, that some ghost was haunting that track, you think that would have changed our minds?"

Lowly Dean regretfully replied, "I don't know. I just wish I could have saved him."

Tim nodded sadly, "I know, I feel the same way. I feel it every single time a driver of one of my cars gets hurt, gets killed. And it doesn't seem to get any easier. But I guess it shouldn't, right?" his eyes probing Dean's, asking for forgiveness as much as giving it.

Swallowing, Dean nodded, knew that Tim did understand his regret for Rook's death, even shared it, just like Sam did, that he didn't bear the weight alone. Then something caught up with him, something that Tim had said. Tilting his head, he gave Tim a questioning look, "How did Garner know the Impala was damaged?"

The question surprised Tim and silently he looked to Dean's younger brother, had no intention of stepping over a line between the brothers. He had put enough pieces together since he had learned of their relationship to know that they were close, would go to extremes to protect one another.

Following the hint Tim was giving him, Dean turned to Sam, Sam who was wearing an uncompromising expression.

Before Dean could begin his interrogation, Sam went on the defensive, "Helping us repair the Impala is the _least_ he owes us Dean," the steel in his tone matching the determination in his that told Dean he wasn't willing to relent on this one.

"So we're now doing this for the payday?" Dean challenged, feeling like they were crossing over into treacherous territory, that taking money tainted their intentions of what they did, why they did it.

"'Course not, Dean. But he's the one who offered to pay us and then reneged on it. He's the one who practically tied our hands while we tried to do the job, making us act like strangers, not allowing us to tell people they were in danger. And his pride wouldn't allow him to consider closing down the track even though he knew how deadly things were, how many people had already died before we even got here," Sam said, voice rising, his anger at Garner burning hotter the longer he talked, tallied Garner's numerous mistakes and prideful manipulations. And part of him knew the greatest charge he held against Garner was his insistence that he and Dean act like strangers, bury their brotherhood, put additional strain on their relationship when their father's death, his deathbed confession seemed nearly capable of severing it.

"Sounds just like Garner," Tim snorted, found he hated seeing the conflict flaring between the brothers enough to cross the safety line he swore he would not. "Egotistical, cold hearted and cheap, that's him. I've got to agree with your little brother on this one, Dean. The least Garner owes you is for him to hit his brother up to scavenge Impala parts from his salvage yard, lend you a garage and my able assistance to fix this classic beauty back to its prime condition." Straightening off the Impala, he walked around to the other side of the Impala and scowled as his eyes scanned the side of the car. "I mean, you can't tell me you're going to let her look like this. Barton's car looks better than this," he scoffed, then he slid his eyes up from his inspection of the Impala to Dean's nearly outraged look. Slowly, a smile pulled onto his lips.

"You're a lying jerk," Dean retorted with a laugh, recognizing that the other man was purposely goading him. "Barton's ride is ready for last rites but my baby just needs a little buffing and some bumpers and she's good as new," he said, hand coming to rest on the Impala's hood as he eyes met the mechanic's over the car's roof.

Tim walked to the back right panel, crouched down and spoke even as he was hidden from view. "This panel's rubbing on the tire. You drive much further and the frame and the tire will be toast."

"No way," Dean contested but he was already hastily making his way around the car to where Tim was crouched. As Dean crouched down, Tim stood up, met Sam's look across the car and gave him a conspiring wink.

Surprised by Tim's well-meaning manipulation of Dean, Sam couldn't help smiling. Found that it felt good to have an ally against Dean's stubbornness, to know that someone else was looking out for what was best for Dean. In that moment, a spike of shame went through him at his earlier resentment of the older man's friendship with his brother. '_Crap, Sammy, jealousy really don't become you_,' he snidely thought, sounding so much like Dean that he smiled wider. "Yeah, now that you mention it, I thought I smelled rubber burning when we were driving her home last night," he called over the car to his unseen brother, adding ammunition to Tim's plot. He couldn't help laughing as Dean's disembodied voice exclaimed, "You did not!" but a moment later worriedly asked, "Did you?"

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Standing outside one of the garage bays of the Smithfield track, Dean, Sam and Tim all stared at the Impala, as if assessing a patient on an operating table. But Dean couldn't ignore the pull of the race track behind him, could hear a car shifting through its gears as it maneuvered around the track. Tim's voice brought his mind back to the Impala, to his car, to the life that was _his_.

"I'll call Garner, make sure he's talked to his brother, then we can go pick out the parts we need," Tim planned, eyes moving from the car to Dean's profile, found he couldn't read the other man's expression or his silence, maybe didn't want to. Hoping to get some more insight, he looked to Sam, but Sam was also watching his brother, a worried look in his eyes.

"Dean, if you're not up for this…" Sam gently began, uncertain what had brought on Dean's silence but not liking it.

Breaking himself out of his thoughts, Dean turned to Sam, reassured, "I'm fine, Sam. I can start working on buffing her out." Putting action to words, he started to head for the tool chest but Sam's hand coiled around his forearm, halted his progress. Looking to Sam with surprise, he read the plea in Sam's eyes, knew where the conversation was headed, knew just as certainly that he wasn't going to let Sam win this bout. "I said I'm fine," he gruffly repeated.

The sound of the garage door being pulled down disrupted the sibling confrontation like a gunshot in a library, had Dean and Sam swiveling around to see Tim lock the garage door in place before he stood up and faced them.

"What the…" Dean began, stepping forward, anger in his tone and stance.

"My help comes with conditions," Tim cut Dean off, came forward to stand toe to toe with Dean.

"I didn't ask for your help. Now open that door," Dean growled and he felt Sam slide to his side, honestly didn't know if Sam was there to be his reinforcement or to hold him back.

To Sam's surprise, Tim looked to him, directed his earnest question to him, even as Tim remained a physical roadblock to Dean's advancement. "Is he up to working on the car?"

"I'm right here!" Dean snapped, stepping forward, earning him Tim's hand on his chest to halt him getting further into his personal space.

Knowing that to answer Tim's question honestly would be like taking side against Dean, Sam felt the blood rushing to his ears, heart pounding in his chest, even as he lowly said, "No, he's not."

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed in outrage, turning to his younger brother but Sam turned to him, eyes ablaze.

With his frustration only coming in second place to his worry, Sam ticked off his brother's injuries. "Your ribs are screwed up, your leg is bruised from calf to hip, your lungs are still battling the smoke inhalation and I can tell your head's still killing you, Dean! What part of any of that makes you "fine", should make me believe _for one second_ that you should be working on the Impala!?"

"I can do it! I've friggin' hunted feeling worse than this!" Dean heatedly countered.

"Well Dad isn't here anymore!" Sam shouted back, leveling blame on who would have expected Dean to hunt while he was hurt. But the words ripped the air out from both he and Dean. The topic of their Dad had been off limits for nearly the whole hunt, his death, his sacrifice, all of it had been put on the back burner.

Seeing the hurt flash in Dean's eyes, Sam's next words were gentle. "It's just us now, Dean. And you've got nothing to prove to me. What I want is for you to stop being so reckless with your life…with your health. I've only got one brother and I'm kinda attached to him, would like him to stick around," Sam ended lightly, a smile turning up his lips but there was a seriousness in his eyes, the telltale signs that he was bearing his soul, was speaking the only truth that mattered to him.

Unprepared for Sam's declaration, Dean opened his mouth then closed it, shifted on his feet but when he saw his brother's worry spike at his silence, he sighed. "Sam, I told you I'm not going anywhere," his voice gentle, quiet, convicted.

Biting his lip, Sam nodded, knew Dean was talking about his oath to not die, to not leave him as the only family member alive, knew just as certainly that it was not an oath to stay at his side, a pledge that he would not choose a life separate from hunting, from him. Focusing on the bigger picture, the most important one, he sharply challenged, "Prove it." At Dean's raised eyebrows of confusion, he expanded, "For once in your life give yourself a break. Wait a few days to work on the Impala."

"Or how about you sit in the corner and supervise me while I do the work," Tim entered the conversation, his tone light but his offer genuine as he stepped to the brothers. Smiling at Dean he prodded, "I've been itching to take a serious look at her and you've been chaffing at me ordering you around. I figure this is a chance for us both to get what we want. Unless you don't trust me with her….."

Sam held his breath, Tim's offer seemingly an answer to prayers but he knew Tim's last volley had cut to the heart of the matter. Trust. Dean wasn't long on trust, had been hurt too many times to offer it to many people, had offered it to him, to their Dad and they had both taken advantage of it, used it for their own means, their own agendas. "I'll help," he breathlessly offered, watched as Dean's eyes slid to his. "You told me I had to…last night. I mean, I did most of the damage, it's only fair I undo it."

"Sam, you had no choice," Dean refuted, didn't hold Sam responsible in any way for the condition of the Impala.

But Sam shrugged, "I still feel guilty. Besides a little hard labor for penance will do my soul good," he joked, was rewarded with a smirk from his brother, which gave him hope that Dean would agree.

Turning from Sam back to Tim, Dean pointed his finger at the mechanic, "All original Impala parts, no racing modifications and no changes to things that aren't broken."

Tim's smile was wide and innocent, "Course, I wouldn't think of _improving _her."

A laugh broke from Sam at Tim's taunt. Even Bobby hadn't offered one word of advice to Dean when he was rebuilding the Impala, had told Sam that he valued his life more than that.

"Shut up," Dean muttered to Tim and Sam, watching as Tim's smile grew as he looked to Sam, saw that the co-conspirators were gloating in their perceived victory.

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Sitting on the stands side by side, the Winchesters divided their attention between the car on the track and Tim's phone conversation with Garner about Impala parts. Sam's head snapped right as Dean stood up.

"I'll be right back," Dean said, not giving Sam a backwards glance as he made his way down the stands.

Tracking Dean, Sam knew when Dean headed toward the track's outside fairgrounds where his destination was: the church, holy ground, Pastor Pete's sanctuary that they had destroyed last night. He didn't pull his attention from Dean even after Tim disconnected his call, claimed a seat on his left side. The mechanic's small chuckle had him turning to the other man. "What?"

Leaning back against the stands until his back and elbows rested on the foot rest for the next level up, Tim squinted up at the sun. "It's just so obvious now that I'm feeling really stupid for not seeing it before."  
Brows furrowing Sam pressed, "What's obvious?"

Rolling his head toward Sam, Tim stated, "You two being brothers."

Taking the statement at face value, Sam mumbled, looking away, "Yeah, we have the same coloring though Dean's never going to get over the fact that I'm taller than he is."

"No, not that. I mean, yeah, there's the physical resemblance…sort of. But I'm talking about the connection between you two. I can see why you two didn't spend much time together at the track. That you couldn't risk giving anyone the tip off that you knew each other, were brothers," he pointed out, unprepared for his words to earn him Sam's intense inspection, almost as if the younger man was trying to call him on his bluff. Shifting upright again, he scoffed good naturedly, "Come on, the way you guys look at each other, track each other's movements, have complete conversations without uttering a word, _argue_. Classic brother traits, through and through. My two cousins were like you guys, would go at with each other like pitbulls but as soon as someone else came at one of them, you better call in the ambulance because the other one would wade into the fight with all they had."

Sam swallowed, felt choked up at Tim's observations even as he discounted them. "Dean and I have fooled a lot of people over the years." The proof was irrefutable that their connection wasn't always so blatant, could be covered up, buried, denied.

"For periods of how long?" Tim challenged, turning fully to face Sam. "In what roles? As strangers?! Because that I don't believe."

"Not usually as strangers…well, never as strangers, not for more than two seconds at a shot," Sam answered, remembered the con they had played in Rockford in the bar. That they had played adversaries, right before everything went sideways at the asylum. Before he went all dark and brooding and shot his brother in the chest with rocksalt.

"Knew it," Tim smugly returned. "I admit, you guys are good but, if you are in each other's presence for more than five minutes, your 'we're strangers' con would unraveled, fast. So I advise you to not try it again."

"I'm in total agreement it's Dean that has to be convinced," Sam returned, knew Dean's earlier oath wasn't as binding as he needed it to be.

"Nah, he doesn't," Tim said with conviction. Then he switched gears, gave Sam a devious smile. "Anyway, I've been meaning to ask you…how did you get Garner to agree to fix your car?"

"He didn't tell you?" Sam drawled and at Tim's shake of his head, he smiled brazenly. "I just threatened to call NASCAR up, give them the full scoop on the happenings at the track they chose to visit on Sunday. Freedom of the press and all that."

"Ah, yeah, that would work," Tim scoffed half in admiration and half in disbelief that Sam had the guts to manipulate Garner like that. "No wonder Garner was so pissed when he called me up in the middle of night, ordered me to fix your car and get you out of his life. Was upset enough to even come clean with me about what was going on at the track, about you guys working for him."

"Yeah, I'm not anxious to run into him. And I really don't want him and Dean to go another round," Sam admitted, his worry causing him to look again for his brother. Across the fairgrounds, he saw Dean slid inside the church tent.

Gathering his courage while Sam's gaze was not on him, Tim hesitantly began, "Sam, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"If it's something about the Impala, you're going to have to ask Dean," Sam distractedly replied, eyes scanning the fairgrounds, making sure Garner wasn't in sight, hadn't seen Dean.

"No, actually, it's about Dean…" Tim cautiously clarified, capturing Sam's full, intimidating attention. And he remembered who he was dealing with, the guy who nearly jumped in a burning car to save his brother, the guy that blackmailed Garner to get what he wanted for his brother. Suddenly his bright idea dimmed, seemed like a mistake of the greatest kind. Dean wasn't a boy, was a man, a dangerous, capable man. And so was Sam. They didn't need his interference in their lives, his help…except some part of him thought that they did.

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Slipping through the torn canvas of the Smithfield race track church, Dean, in one glance, took in the broken and strewn chairs, the Bibles and Hymnals littering the ground and Pastor Pete, standing in the midst of the destruction, stunned by the damage. The Pastor, sensing his presence, looked to him and gave a sad smile.

"Doesn't look like much of a church now?" the Pastor lightly scoffed, bending down to pick up a Bible off the ground. Standing up, he ran his hand over the tire tread that marred the Bible's soft cover.

Shame and guilt seared into Dean, knew that it was his fault and he should take the blame for it. Stepping toward the Pastor, he put his hands in his pocket, felt his shoulders drop to match his low tone as he spoke, drew the Pastor's gaze again to him. "I'm sorry."

Sighing, Pastor Pete off handedly absolved, "Not your fault." Putting the Bible down on an upright chair, he crossed to the wooden pulpit that lay on its side.

"Yeah, actually it is," Dean confessed, crossing to where the Pastor now crouched by the pulpit. He didn't shy away when the Pastor's surprised, confused gaze snapped up to him.

"I don't understand. You did this? You were the one joy riding in Barton's car?" disbelief saturated the Pastor's words, shadowed his eyes as they met Dean's.

"Yeah but…it's more complicated than that," Dean said, unfamiliar with feeling guilty at property damages, of the aftermath of one of their successful hunts for the innocent people on the sidelines.

Stunned, Pastor Pete simply looked at Dean, found that he could read the truth in the younger man's eyes, could just as easily read the guilt and regret. Not knowing how to feel let alone what to say, he turned to manual labor, began to hoist the pulpit upright.

Stepping forward, Dean grabbed the other side of the pulpit, wanting to help the Pastor, to make some small restoration to the damage he had caused. But the pulpit weighed more than he guessed and, at the first pull he made to lever the pulpit upright, he knew he had misjudged the strain his ribs would take.

Dean's muted cry of pain had Pastor Pete instantly abandoning the pulpit and scrambling to the young mechanic's side. Gripping Dean by the upper arms, hoping to keep the younger man on his feet, his eyes clashed with Dean's and he saw what his own misery had blinded him to: the paleness of Dean's complexion, his stiff stance, the dulled depths of his eyes. "You're been hurt again. Worse," he breathed, hated himself for not seeing it before Dean had tried to help him, had maybe done more damage to himself. "Here, take a seat," he said, steering Dean backwards and pushing him back into a chair that survived the carnage unscathed.

Crouching down by Dean's chair, Pastor Pete surveyed Dean, saw that he was wrapping his arm around his stomach, seemingly bracing against pain. "Is your brother here? Should I go get him?" he hurriedly asked, watched as Dean's eyes flew to his, the surprise sparking for a moment before it was buried.

"My brother? Why would you think he's here? I didn't end up calling him when I was in the hospital," Dean backpedaled, pulling on a scoffing smile, maintaining the lie.

Unfazed by Dean's denial, Pastor Pete gave a gentle smile in return. "I'm talking about Sam. Are you going to tell me he's not your brother?"

Blinking, Dean looked at the Pastor, felt decidedly off his game now that his cover had been blown. "How…" he began, knew Sam wouldn't have told him any more than Garner would have confided in him.

"In my profession, I end up trying real hard to hear things that need to be heard…even when people aren't saying them, can't say them," Pastor Pete vaguely stated, earning him a raised eyebrow from Dean which clearly asked for further clarification. "You almost called Sam by name in the hospital. And then everyone was talking about how 'the reporter' pulled you from the burning car after your accident."

"So? That's hardly a case for fraternity," Dean countered, a glimmer of steel in his gaze, wondering if he was getting played.

Sensing that he had come up against Dean's self made wall, Pastor Pete stood, found another untouched chair, sat it in front of Dean and claimed a seat. "Sam talked to me after the church service." Dean stilled, his eyes not giving anything away but Pastor Pete softened his next words all the same. "He said he had recently lost his father and he felt, sometimes like he was going to also lose his brother." Left unsaid the rest of Sam's sentence, "_And losing my brother isn't something I can survive. He's always been there, you know. The strong one, the one I could count on, no matter what was happening, or what I did."_

Sitting back further in his seat, Dean said nothing, having been in enough interrogations in his life to know reacting was always a mistake. But something inside him twisted at the knowledge that Sam was scared enough to open up to a stranger, to voice his fears that he would be left alone, the last Winchester standing.

Seeing that Dean was shutting down tighter, Pastor Pete changed tactics, sat back in his own chair and smirked, "You say the same things, you know." And that got a flash of surprise slipping from the younger man's fortifications. "When I suggested that he talk to his brother about how he was feeling, he said he did already. Said he '_didn't need his brother to come hold his hand…to worry about him more than he already did._' Same thing you said in the hospital when I suggested that you call _your _brother." Noting a marginal easing in Dean's stiff posture, he continued, voice mixing with somberness and admiration, "And then I saw him stop you from reaching Rook's burning car," his eyes unflinchingly meeting Dean's before the younger man dropped his head, hid his gaze, tried to conceal his weakness, his guilt.

"Not bad for a Preacher," Dean quietly returned, striving to put mirth and respect in his tone.

"I have my moments," Pastor Pete off handedly gloated, watched Dean's bowed head jar a minute with a snort of laughter. "I don't get to see it much in person these days, a bond like Jonathan and David's, a brotherhood that's so strong."

At the reference to the Sunday's sermon, Dean looked up, faced the Pastor. "Jonathan protected David like he was his brother…went against his own father to save him."

"Yeah, he did. I don't relish him the choice. Goes to prove that sometimes our earthly fathers aren't right, sometimes we can't follow their advice…or take their side. Jonathan was one strong guy, certainly a good guy to have on your side."

'_Am I a good guy for Sammy to have on his side_?' Dean wondered, had some doubt about his strength because he had failed Sam before, too many times. Looking down at his hands, he spoke lowly, "I've spent my whole life following my Dad's orders, justifying his actions…his mistakes, to Sam, to myself." Raising his head, he was rewarded with a look of understanding in the Pastor's eyes instead of sympathy. "Tried to believe that Dad had all the answers, that he wasn't lost, that _I_ wasn't lost."

"And now?' The Pastor gently prodded.

Dean gave a weak smile that had nothing to do with happiness and snorted as he shook his head. "Now…everything's screwed up. What I believed. What I _want_ to believe. It's all changed and I can't blindly follow his orders anymore. I won't. Because…he's not right, what he thinks will happen, what he wants me to do if things go wrong."

"I think for Jonathan, his choice was clear, he chose the brother of his heart. It doesn't mean it didn't nearly kill him to go against his father, that it was easy. But it was right and with his actions, he honored his brotherhood with David when it counted most," Pastor Pete quietly said, eyes on Dean, wanting to ease the hurt in the young man.

In his heart, Dean had no doubts that saving Sam was the right thing to do. And he knew that, if push came to shove, he would never kill Sam, would never obey that order from his father. Because as much as Sam thought obeying their father was his number one instinct, Sam would be wrong. Protecting his little brother was, always had been.

Tilting his head, Dean gave the Pastor a probing look. "So Sam really didn't say my name, didn't say any more about my Dad's death other than that he was worried about me?"

"Seems like that's a lot," the Pastor returned softly. "I could tell it wasn't easy for him, to voice his concerns for you. Guess you're alike in that way too, cut off…even sometimes from each other."

"Have to be sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. Things rattling around in my head…" Dean shook his head rueful, "Its better if I keep my gameface on."

"Better for who? You or Sam? Because by what I can tell, some days he feels like he's already lost you," Pastor Pete questioned, remembering the same hurt, confused look on Sam's face when he talked about his family, about his brother, about trying to keep his emotions under control, of not unloading them on his grieving brother, who had enough weight on his shoulders.

"He hasn't lost me," Dean refuted gruffly.

"Might be nice if _he_ knew that," Pastor Pete drawled, a smile softening his words.

"Dean?" came though the canvas a moment before Sam strode inside but came to a halt, not at the destruction but at the sight of his brother and the Pastor talking. "Oh…I'm sorry…didn't mean…" he stammered, looking like he was about to make a hasty retreat.

Pastor Pete watched Dean stand up and face his brother without an outward show of pain, knew that the younger man wore many masks, kept himself behind more walls than he could identify. Wondered how he _could_ bear the weight, could chose to be closed off, even from those who loved him as strongly as his brother apparently did. He was surprised when Dean turned back to him, meet his eyes and let him see gratitude and apology in his gaze.

"About your church…" Dean began, wasn't sure how much he wanted to say in front of Sam, how much he wanted to reveal to the Pastor about ghosts and holy ground and his church used as a sacrifice.

Standing, Pastor Pete met Dean's eyes. "Don't worry. I'll get it cleaned up. A church isn't really about a building or a tent anyway. It's about the people."

"Then you will do fine…'cause people, you know," Dean stated, knew that he honestly didn't have to worry about the Pastor, the man's flock would follow him onto the race track infield if they had to. Turning around and beginning to head to Sam, he saw Sam give a nod and smile to the Pastor before they both headed out of the tent, side by side.

Shooting Dean a worried look as they made their way across the uneven ground, Sam asked without accusation, "You told him that we wrecked his church, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Dean admitted, eyes forward.

"You tell him why?" Sam pressed, wanting Dean to have defended himself.

Looking to Sam, Dean replied with a soft smile, "He never asked."

Relief flooded Sam, knew that whatever had taken place between the Pastor and Dean wasn't about guilt or condemnation, was maybe about forgiveness. But when Dean's eyes slid to him, there was a question in them, made him nervously wonder if he somehow had come up in conversation between the two men. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean deflected, looking back to the track, to the car taking the turn in the inside lane.

Following Dean's line of sight, Sam also watched the car for a moment, knew that what he was about to offer to Dean, it was the right thing to do. Was about giving back some of what Dean had freely given to him all his life: Normalcy, a chance at a dream, a few earned moments of true happiness. "Tim said that Garner agreed to have drivers from all over the state race on Saturday to see which 25 drivers will be in the race Sunday when NASCAR's here."

Dean snorted but didn't pull his eyes away from the race track, "Man, that ought to be a blood bath, all vying for a chance at the gold ring. Talk about no holds barred."

'_Crap, Dean! You're not helping_!' went through Sam, his brother's words, the truth of them, the scenarios they conjured up in Sam's head crumbling his resolve. He couldn't voice his offer then, bit his lip instead. '_Dean would do it for me, has done it for me. Allowed me to risk everything for my dreams. Let me walk away from him because he could see it was something I wanted in life. Thought I wanted more than I wanted my family.' _

Snagging Dean's arm, Sam brought them both to a halt. He faced Dean, wanted him to see the earnestness in his eyes, to realize that his offer was genuine. "Tim has a way for you to get in Saturday's race, to use one of Garner's cars." Dean's expression broadcasted his surprise, had Sam's next words rushing out. "But I told Tim you couldn't race Sunday, no matter what. That there were….reasons you couldn't end up on the front page of the local paper…or on a NASCAR team. But you could win a spot here, at Smithfield, or some other race track higher up on the food chain. Tim said he still has connections, could…"

"Sam," Dean patiently interjected, astounded, _touched_ by his brother's offer, his scheme even as he was about to shoot it down, deny it's temptation.

"No, Dean," Sam refuted, shaking his head, "Don't tell me this isn't what you want, that you don't deserve it, that you shouldn't do it. You do deserve it, Dean. All of it, NASCAR, the fame, the fortune, the adoring women fans…" he smirked, saw Dean frown loosen. "But this …I know it's a small consolation prize but it's all I can offer Dean. At least now. Maybe if we can get your name cleared, can get you off of America's Most Wanted…."

Gently but firmly Dean protested, "Sam I don't need…"

"Well maybe I do, Dean," Sam choked out. "Maybe I need to see you smile more, maybe I need to know that something can make you happy. Maybe I need to see you cross that finish line almost as much as you do. Hunting isn't who you are, Dean! You're not just the guy who saves people's lives..you're also the guy who makes kids smile, who turns every woman's head, who knows how to fix a car for the _race circuit_, who knows how to comfort someone who's lost someone they love, who knows how to talk to someone like Phillips and prove to him that he's not crazy, that one car wreck doesn't mean he should lose his nerve to race again. And you can drive a car…better than anyone I've ever met, Dean. Better than these guys on this track, and that's not just my opinion, that's Tim opinion too. What's so wrong about doing what you're good at Dean? With taking one day out of your _life _and doing what you want to do?"

"We have more important things to do, Sam," Dean firmly returned, appreciated the offer, Sam's words but could live without the victory. He had come to realize that he would always count other victories greater in the bigger scheme of his life.

"Well not on Saturday we don't," Sam uncompromisingly countered, saw a weakening in Dean resolve and latched onto it. "Dude, you're racing. So shut up and let's go check out the car Tim's got lined up for you." Then he tugged on Dean's arm like he was that little brother again, tugging his big brother toward the Ferris wheel, never entertaining the idea that his brother wouldn't go along with what he wanted.

Giving Sam a fabricated exasperated look, Dean gave way to Sam's tug on his arm, began walking toward the garages, Sam at his side. "It won't change anything, Sam," he quietly said, shot Sam a look. "No matter what you think, I wouldn't choose racing over hunting, over our lives." '_Over you_.'

Sam forced a smirk, instilled teasingly lightness in his tone but kept his eyes from Dean, knew his brother was too adept at reading his emotions. "You say that now but once you cross over that finish line…" he nearly stumbled as Dean stepped in front of him, as he tried hard to not body slam into his brother's abused body.

Resting his hand on Sam's chest to stop his brother's progress as much as to connect them, Dean met his brother's expressive eyes that showed him what the offer was costing his little brother, the fear that Sam carried that his big brother would do something worse than kill him: would leave him. And he couldn't stand to see that fear, that hurt, that doubt in Sammy's eyes, not anymore. "I said I wasn't leaving you and I meant it. Family comes first, before everything else. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Not for all the trophies in the world, Sammy."

Immeasurably touched by his brother's vow, Sam felt himself tearing up. Giving a watery look and offering up a tremulous smile to Dean, he rashly adopted one of his brother's 'how to avoid a total chick flick breakdown moment' tactic. "Not for all the beautiful, swooning women race fans in the world?"

"Well….now that's different, Sammy," Dean drawled, a cocky smile on his face, hand coming up to pat Sam on the chest before he turned around. But he waited until Sam was at his side before he took one step forward, felt contentment wash over him as Sam paced him, purposely matched his slower gait. Seeing the easy smile on Sam's face, feeling a tension ease in Sam that had been so prevalent since their Dad's death, he knew that, though Sam was willingly giving him a chance to race, Sam didn't want him to _go_, was relieved that he wasn't going to trade up their hunting lives for the race circuit…for even NASCAR. Begun to realize that Sam valued him …might value him as much as he valued Sam.

It was a strange trade off for Sam, putting his fears second to Dean's wants, finding peace washing over him at his capitulation. The last thing he wanted was for Dean to be in danger, to be hurt worse than he already was, for him to be involved in another car accident. But matching that fear, was his desire to see Dean excel, for Dean to realize that he was great at a thousand things, to see himself the way Sam saw him, as a man to be respected, to be honored, for his choices in life as well as his skills. Wanted Dean to know in his soul what Sam knew at four years old, knew so much better now at twenty seven: That anyone would be proud to have Dean for a brother…whether he was a ghost hunter, race car driver, firefighter or small town mechanic.

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TBC

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Ok, so I really wanted Dean to get his shot at racing..even if it's not to go to the pros. I think the man deserves it.

Thanks for all the encouragement in your reviews!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	14. Timed Responses

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: I apologize for the horrible delay! And this is not the final chapter but a small peace offering for the long wait for anybody wanting the story to continue.

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Chapter 14: Timed Responses

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Watching Dean zip up the racing suit, Sam felt his gut tighten in fear even as a swell of pride surged through him. The suit looked…._right_ on Dean. He could admit that now, while he stood at his brother's side, was part of Dean's life, of his decisions, was somewhat responsible for Dean getting to do what he loved. But days ago, seeing, from across the track, Dean donning a suit like this one….it had seemed all manners of wrong, wrong, wrong. And it didn't have everything to do with Barton, with danger, with foolish risks. '_No it had to do with Dean going against my wishes, with being jealous that he welcomed Tim at his side…and not me_,' he confessed even as a little part of him was somewhat appalled at the validation he felt at being the one that rescued Dean from the burning car, was there for his brother…when Tim wasn't, when no one else was.

But whatever self-assurance that action stirred in Sam, it also brought his fear churning to the surface. Because, the suit Dean was wearing right then, it was identical to the one Dean had been wearing when he had pulled Dean from the burning race car. '_Barton's gone. The track is safe,_' Sam told himself but the thought almost made him snort. '_Safe except for Dean going 200 mph. Then there is the future prospect of him being surrounded by other drivers that would probably rather see him dead than have him pass them. Ah, yeah, safe…just like everything else in our lives.'_

Stalling, Dean fidgeted a moment longer than necessary with the suit before he looked up, faced his brother's worry, intense assessment that he could _feel_. "What?" he asked, not with frustration but with quiet understanding, because he didn't want to scorn Sam's emotions, wanted to ease them. Found he wanted Sam to enjoy this moment like he was. Wanted Sam to be a _willing_ partner in this, unlike the times his brother had been his unwilling partner in hunting.

Shrugging, Sam denied, "Nothing," not wanting to tarnish this moment for Dean with his worries. '_Unfounded worries,_' he insisted, trying to convince himself that it was the truth.

"Sam.." Dean entreated gently because he wasn't a fool, could tell what was rattling around in his brother's head: his previous racing car wreck, the fire…a semi coming out of nowhere, broad-siding the Impala. But Garner's approaching voice cut off his next words.

With one look to each other, the brothers simultaneously moved, slipped into the storage room of the garage, purposefully hid out of the track owner's sight. Leaning against the wall, their shoulders touching, the brothers listened to the conversation from car #36's garage.

"Tim, you practically begged me to put Troy's car into the race and now, with ten minutes until qualifying begins, your driver is a no show!" Garner angrily pointed out as he entered the garage, couldn't keep his look away from the restored #36 car, felt a rippling of pride at the sight before he turned to face his head mechanic. Icily he patronized, "I don't think I have to tell you the rules, do I? If the car and driver don't qualify today, they aren't in Saturday's race and they sure aren't in Sunday's."

Quelling his own anger, Tim let his reply come slowly, let it resonate with calm, assertiveness because he wanted Dean to race, wanted Troy's car to be in Saturday's race, wanted some kind of victory after months of loss. "Like I said, the driver is from upstate. He has a drive to get here but he'll make it on time."

"On time would have been two hours ago! You vouched for this driver," Garner said as if it were an accusation. Stepping into Tim's personal space, he jabbed a finger into his mechanic's chest. "This driver that I've never heard of before, who's not here when he should be. I trusted you," he lowly hissed, stabbing Tim in the chest with more force. "But, you know what, it's my reputation on the line out there. I'm the one who entered the #36 car into the race and I'm the one whose going to be the laughing stock if I can't even get the car qualified

"It will qualify," Tim firmly defended, not backing down, somewhere down deep wanting to be worthy of Garner's trust, no matter that the man infuriated him, that he was a brooding, bad mannered jerk 99% of the time. Because, the other 1%, the part of Garner he had glimpsed when the older man had been with Troy, that man had been someone better, someone who valued life, who even enjoyed it. Was someone who certainly loved racing, better than breathing.

"Funny thing is….we need a driver to qualify," Garner sneered, stepping back from Tim, pacing along the length of Troy's car. "A driver that gets us into Saturday's race. That means his qualifying time has to beat out fifty other hungry, talented race car drivers."

Biting his cheek to prevent himself from telling Garner it was his own fault for opening the race to other drivers in the state, Tim drew in a deep breath, shifted on his feet but Garner's blazing look burned through his good intentions. "Guess all that competition, that's thanks to you, right?" he drawled even as he was cursing his inability to not lose his temper, to not fight fire with fire. He saw the hotter flare of anger in Garner's eyes but he pressed on anyways. "But I'm thinking your willingness to open the race to other race teams …that has a lot more to do with the bribes you got than your love for fair play."

Garner stilled at Tim's words, shocked that his usually even tempered, sometimes friend had leveled that accusation. But there was no shame in Tim's eyes, no repentance, no wish to take the words back, to rethink them. So when Bruce finally spoke, it was a growled barrage of words, "You want to know about my love for fair play? Then how about this: If this car qualifies today, you still have a job. If it doesn't…maybe, when the Winchesters leave, they can give you a lift out of town, drop you off at some two bit race track no-one's heard of, certainly not NASCAR."

Galvanized into motion, into defending Tim, Dean started to break cover, to confront Garner but Sam snagged unto his bicep. Pulling Dean back against his shoulder, Sam stopped his brother from storming into the garage and confronting Garner…and ruining his chances to be that "out of state driver" to qualify the #36 car. Dean's eyes slammed into him, angry and impassioned, like they always were when someone he liked got into trouble. 'Wait,' Sam mouthed, hand tightening on his brother's arm, ears straining for Tim's comeback, his heart pounding, uncertain if he was more _worried_ Tim would blow Dean's chances to race or more _hoping_ he would.

Unforeseen by the Winchesters, a slow, cocky smile pulled onto Tim's lips. "I'll agree to those terms," Tim countered, praying that it was his belief in Dean's talents, confidence in Troy's car that was making the reply and not his anger or his ego.

"You never know when to back down, do you?" Garner challenged but there was a hint of admiration in his tone. "The only reason you're not gone right now is the last time you fought this hard to get a driver on this tract, you were right about his talents."

Tim's chest tightened with sadness, could see the same emotion slipping through Bruce's anger. "Yeah, Troy…he was special on and off the track."

Bruce Garner's eyes dropped to the #36 car. Reaching out, he rested his hand on the roof of the car. "You said he would want his car back in action, to not be some dusty shrine to his memory," he quietly said before his look snapped back up to Tim, void of warmth. "But he would want it to win, he always wanted to win. Make sure he does," he roughly ordered before he stalked by Tim and out the garage door.

Garner's words left Tim wondering if the man knew he had misspoken, had said "he" when he meant "it – the car". Worried that the older man was mistaking what was on the line today, that it was the reputation of Troy's car, not the reputation of the man Garner had loved like a son. Internally cursing, Tim ran a hand through his hair, felt like he was walking a tight rope between his loyalty to Garner, to Troy's memory and his loyalty to Dean, his belief in Dean's driving abilities. Walking to the storage room, he leaned against the doorway, met Dean Winchester's eyes. "Well, that's as close to a blessing and pep speech as we're likely to get."

"Tim, no matter how well I qualify today, when Garner finds out I'm the driver, he's going to fire you," Dean firmly pointed out. His mind going a thousand mph, trying to formulate a new plan, a plan that made sure Tim didn't lose his job just because he _wanted_ a chance to race, to have a fleeting moment of normal, to make a selfish grab for a slice of what-could-have-been-but-will-never-be.

"No, he won't," Tim refuted, could see the younger man's worry…for him. It reminded him again why he was risking his job, why this kid had slipped through the walls he had erected since Troy's death: heart. Dean had heart in spades. And that trait, coupled with his driving skill…it would be criminal to not finagle Dean behind the wheel of a race car again, to not unleash his natural born instincts against the clock, against the best the state could offer, against all comers.

Clamping a hand on Dean's shoulder, Tim gave a small but genuine smile to the younger man he had come to value in the short time he had known him. "Like I told you, Bruce is a bottom line type of guy. If you prove to him that you can get him what he wants, he'll use you in spite of his pride." Then with a excited spark in his eyes, he said, "Now let's get this show on the road, 'cause like the man said, we're up in less than ten minutes."

When Sam moved first, walked around him and out of the storage room, Dean braced himself to face Sam's own misgivings about his racing. Sure, in a way it had been Sam's idea that he race as much as it had been Tim's. Tim had said he went to Sam first with the scheme to get him into the race, wanted to have his little brother green light it before he mentioned it to him. Wanted Sam's _permission_. As if their roles were reversed, that Sam was the big brother and he was the little brother, was a world where Sam's job was to protect him. '_You think Sam doesn't protect you?! You think you would have gotten out of that car alive if Sam hadn't been there, hadn't hauled your butt free before you went all crispy critter.' _The truth was a little hurtful, made him feel like he had lost some ground, had faltered somewhere in Sam's eyes, had failed in his own role to protect Sam, to be the big brother. Begrudgingly, he admitted that he had lost his way since his Dad had died. But he hadn't known how far he had gone astray until now, until Sam had to protect him instead of him protecting Sam.

Eyes doing a shamed hit and run with Tim's, Dean shouldered by the older man and stepped back into the main garage area where his brother and the #36 car were waiting for him. Not wanting to see the look in Sam's eyes, the worry, the misgivings Sam harbored in his skills, in his strength, he stalked to the car, head down. But his proffered helmet blocked his path. Tracing the helmet to the hand that held it up to his brother's eyes, his breath nearly caught as he saw a rare smile on Sam's face that _almost_ surpassed the slice of worry still flickering in his brother's eyes.

"Man, to think about all the times your lead foot almost got us jail time and now someone is _asking_ you to go as fast as you can?! Garner's going to be kissing your feet to get you to race tomorrow," Sam predicted with pride shining in his eyes. When a smug smile of certainty found its way unto his brother's features, he felt more of his worry lift. This was _Dean_ he was dealing with, his big brother, the guy that out drove cops and FBI agents and _ghosts_.

Sam's words, the look in his eyes, it told Dean everything he needed to know, discounted everything he had feared. Sam protected him, yes. But Sam also believed in him, believed in him when no one else did, when even their Dad had belittled his instincts, Sam had loyally followed them..him. '_Like he did in the cabin, stepped to my side instead of Dad's, believed me when I said Dad was possessed. Trusted me above everything and everyone else. He puts his trust in me even when I don't deserve it._'

Trouble was, Dean didn't know how to repay that trust, that loyalty, to acknowledge it, to thank Sam for that priceless gift. Turned instead to his standard, bold facade, "That's the plan, Sammy, that's the plan," he boasted, was encouraged by Sam's small laugh and Tim's nod at his antics. Sliding the helmet on and cinching it, he eyed Sam through the open visor. "If there are any bets down, you better be betting on me."

"Always do, Dean," Sam honestly returned, saw a flicker of surprise and affection in Dean's eyes before his brother put down the helmet visor. Watching Dean slide through the driver's side window into the seat, he clenched his teeth at the stiffness he noted in Dean's motions that bespoke of wounds too fresh, of bruises still tender. Made his worry, his doubt spike again because, though Dean worked through a crap load of pain better than anyone else he had ever known, it didn't mean he should have to, even to get what he deserved, what he wanted in life. '_But then again, this is __our__ life I'm talking about_,' he ruefully thought. As he watched Tim lean in and help Dean secure the safety belt and reset the steering wheel, his hands inched to do that for Dean, nearly clenched when Tim gave Dean's helmet a proud pat.

As soon as Tim cleared the window and stepped back a pace or two, Sam stepped forward to greedily claim his brotherly right to be at Dean's side. Hands tightening on the door, he fought to not reach in and touch Dean, make a connection with his brother, like Tim had done so easily and that came so hard for him. Knew his inability to reach out to Dean was wrapped up in his desire to not feel vulnerable and not have Dean look at him like he was five again and was refusing to let go of his hand and go into his kindergarten class. "Remember that the goal is to go as fast as you can without killing yourself," he lightly chastised but he couldn't help the way his features broadcasted his concern, couldn't get his heart rate to simmer down, couldn't quiet the little voice in his head that told him to stop Dean from doing this, from risking his life needlessly.

"Sammy, always the keeper of the rule book," Dean taunted as he pulled on his gloves before he met Sam's look, that beseeching, 'I-can-still-put-an-end-to-this' look. "Yeah, Sam. I think I know that no one can win a race posthumously." Then he cranked on the race car's engine and it engulfed every cubic inch of sound in the garage. Giving a wink to Sam, he drove the car from the garage and headed for the qualifying line.

Trailing behind the car as it left the garage, Sam stood a moment immobile, watched Dean maneuver the car onto the race track. He could feel Tim at his side but honestly he wasn't sure he could say something light right then, could fool the other man into thinking he wasn't torn between overwhelming pride and gut wrenching dread.

Sam wasn't even disappointed when Tim beat him to the punch line, uttered a light-hearted remark before he could. "You know, after this, there will be no living with him, right? He'll want to install Nitro into his car."

Sam looked to Tim with a grateful look in his eyes for his gesture and a confident smirk turning up his lips. "If he tries, I'll tell him what he told you: We only ever use original Impala parts."

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For Sam, it was a lesson in holding his breath the second Dean got the green light and the #36 car leapt forward, ate up the track's macadam, climbed toward the walls and sank down into the corners. Felt like the whoosh of air that Dean's car created as it rocketed past his spot in the infield was like CPR, giving him air to breathe before Dean stole it away again by taking the turns at speeds Sam wanted to go to his grave not knowing. He didn't have to look at Tim's stop watch, didn't have to see the seconds flicking by on the official board to know Dean was one fast man in motion. '_Nothing new there_.'

But it was new to others. Hearing Garner's low curse through the headphones was gratifying, even enjoyable to Sam. As was the man's excited, "What did you say this driver's name was?"

Relishing the opportunity handed to him on a silver platter, Sam turned to his right, found Garner was unknowingly at his side, mesmerized as the older man was by the car on the track, by _his_ car on _his_ track. "His name's Dean. He's my brother. I think you two have met." The surprise, the anger, the acknowledgement in Garner's expression…it was sweet, was as rewarding as had been to punch the man after he had blamed Dean for Rook's death, had struck his brother. '_Well almost as rewarding_,' he amended, feeling his anger rise again at the memories of the scene in the parking lot after Rook's death. Garner had a lot to pay penance for and this was just a small down payment, like fixing the Impala was.

"You better be joking," Garner snarled, shouldering past Sam to get to Tim. Standing toe to toe with Tim, finger pointing to the #36 car just then crossing over the finish line, he thundered, "Tell me that isn't Dean! Tell me you didn't let him drive Troy's car!?"

Smiling as he looked at the time watch and then the official board, Tim turned his focus onto Garner. "Actually you let him drive Troy's car. You gave me your blessing to pick the driver. And I gotta admit, your gamble has paid off. He's in third position." And he showed Garner the stopwatch even as he nodded to the official board, showing the #36 car in 3rd qualifying position, making Dean and the car a certified participant in the next day's race.

"I should fire you right now, have all three of you escorted off the track!" Garner threatened, his voice rising with his blood pressure.  
Tim shrugged, knew that no matter what Garner ended up doing, he had been right to put Dean in that car, on that track. "You said it yourself, Troy loved to win, would want his car to continue the tradition. Dean can make that happen. Decision is yours," he nonchalantly announced, handing Garner the stop watch before he broke into a jog to catch up with Sam, who was already half way to his brother's side.

Reaching the #36 car, Sam crouched down by the door, couldn't contain his smile of happiness and relief as he faced Dean. Stealing his left hand into the car's interior, he patted Dean on the chest twice before leaving his hand there. "Dude, that was awesome! You're in third position."

"Third," Dean repeated, a note of disappointment in his tone.

"Tim said it's better if you don't get lead. Then you have some room to move on the track, to study the other drivers," Sam immediately countered, hand slipping to wrap around Dean's left bicep. "Come on, get out."

His ribs shifting painfully as he pushed himself out of the window of the car, Dean clenched his teeth to not let a growl of pain became audible. Last thing he needed was to show Sam that, though the car hadn't left orbit, it had felt like there had been G-forces pressing against him, making breathing seem a job instead of an instinct. But instantly he knew he didn't have to voice his pain for Sam to see right through him. Not if the way Sam sidled up to him when he was finally out of the car, or pierced him with a worried look of inspection when he tried to nonchalantly lean against the car to take some of the pressure off of his leg, meant anything. He was spared Sam's third degree, however, only to get roasted from another source.

"You're one manipulative guy, aren't you?" Bruce Garner bitterly accused as he approached, ignoring the glare Tim threw over his shoulder at him. "You have your little brother blackmail me to pay for repairs to your car," he said, giving a chin jerk to Sam before he leveled his heated gaze onto Tim. "You get my mechanic to con me so you can try and get in Sunday's race." As he stepped in front of Dean, took in the younger man's relaxed posture against the car, against Troy's car, his anger heightened. "Get away from Troy's car!" he lowly ordered, hands reaching forward to physically remove Dean from even _touching_ the car of a man he had loved like a son, who was gone…and wasn't coming back, to race, to win, to laugh at his jokes and tell him to lighten up, to not be such a bear.

Easily reading Garner's intentions before the man even made a move toward his brother, Sam stepped forward, ruthlessly gripped Garner's suit lapels in his hands and jerked the track owner to the right, away from Dean and into a direct confrontation with him. "Don't touch him," he hissed even as he felt Dean shift away from the car, felt his brother's hand fall onto his shoulder, telling him to back down.

Knowing that things could get out of hand, Tim came to Garner's side, spoke without restraint. "What's your problem with him, really, Bruce? It's not about him racing. It's not even about him racing Troy's car, is it?"

Knocking Sam's hands from his suit, unwilling to admit that it was more Sam's capitulation to release him than his own strength that won his freedom, Bruce turned fully to Tim. "My problem with him?!? I hired him to do a job and he let Rook die?!"

"No, he didn't. You did," Tim lowly contradicted, abandoning the safety of silence, of clinging to the notion that he had to save his career, should take steps to save it. Knew that some things were more important than fulfilling a dream, of getting what you thought you wanted, deserved in life. That it was time to speak the truths that severely outweighed the lies that let him sleep at night. "Dean and Sam tried to stop us from racing on the track until the ghost was gone. For you, it was business as usual, time is money. And when Rook's car went up into flames, Dean was willing to risk his life to try and save Rook. But you, you weren't even willing to risk losing one cent or get even one whiff of bad press, not over something as trivial as to save someone's life, right?"

Stepping closer, eyes boring into Garner's, Tim leveled his next accusation like an ax. "But the real question, the one you've been asking yourself is: If you had done things differently, would Troy be alive right now, racing his own car?!" Tim knew it was a direct hit, could see pain flare in Bruce's eyes, could see the older man's chin tremble with emotions barely checked. Tim's next words weren't accusations, were consolations, because he had once known what it was like to devalue life, to think it was more important how a car came out of a crash than how a driver did. Knew how easy it was to think in terms of success and fame and fortune…instead of friendship, family, and brotherhood. He had left NASCAR hoping to find those things again, in the world and in himself. Troy had helped him find that path but Dean and Sam, they had steered him to the finish line.

"We can't go back and make different choices, Bruce. No matter how clearly the right answers are in hind sight," Tim quietly spoke, remembered how Garner had been with Troy, understood that whatever guilt he laid on Garner over the young driver's death it couldn't match the guilt Bruce assigned himself. "Troy is gone. Maybe there was something you could have done or Dean and Sam could have done to save him…and maybe there was nothing any of us could have done. Don't spend the rest of your life hating yourself for something that can't be undone." As Garner bowed his head, he knew his words were reaching him.

Shifting his stance, Tim steeled himself to broach another painful subject. "And I know, Dean reminds you of Troy…" Garner stiffened at the words even as Dean's eyes flew to Tim in surprise. "He does me too," Tim admitted, giving Dean a sad smile before he refocused on Bruce. "But he's not Troy. He's not trying to take Troy's place …in your life…or even on this track, in that car. He's got his own strengths and his own path to travel. And you and I both know he can drive, can give Troy's car one more shining moment before you retire it. He can give you that victory that you can practically taste."

Raising his eyes to meet Tim's, Bruce drew in a breath, knew that out of all the people on the track, Tim understood his loss, even shared it. Could help him navigate the lines between honoring and disrespecting Troy. "Fine. He races tomorrow," he gruffly agreed before turning to Dean, who had come to stand shoulder to shoulder with his little brother, taking in the scene between the two older men in silence. But whatever Garner thought about saying to Dean, he didn't, simply turned around and walked away.

Watching Garner leave, Dean understood the man a little better but was not able to garner any true feelings of warmth toward him. No matter how he rationalized it, the man had put people's lives in danger, had been, at least partially, to blame for Rook's death. Tim could forgive him…didn't mean he was willing to forgive him or himself for their part in a man losing his life. Turning his focus onto Tim, he found the mechanic wearing a smug smirk. "That went well," he sarcastically charged, knowing in his gut how badly things could have turned out, almost did.

"Better than I expected," Sam murmured with an exhale of held breath, earning him Dean's eye brow raised look. "You didn't think there was going to be blood shed?"

"Not with you around to protect me, Sammy," Dean groused back, a little torn between being touched that Sam was playing his bodyguard again and disgruntled at the notion.

"Boys, boys," Tim drawled as if he were the parent of unruly children, stepping forward and letting his hands drop onto each of the Winchester's shoulders. "No time for bickering about who is the _bestest_ brother. We only have a few hours to get your beloved Impala back to its top form because, I know as soon as the checkered flag goes down tomorrow, Garner and every other track owner will be looking to sign you up for a contract before NASCAR breezes through the door. Not to mention the reporters," he gave a pointed look to Sam, "I mean the real news reporters will be climbing over each other to get the scoop on the victorious mystery driver. So you two better be ready to hit the road running tomorrow after the race." Dropping his hands, he stood back and watched the byplay between the brothers, still mystified that he hadn't pegged them as brothers from the get go.

"That's only if I _win,_" Dean clarified, touched by Tim's belief in him but he knew it was Sam's respect he truly wanted to earn, Sam's faith in him he didn't want to exploit. Could feel the knot of terror coil in him at the thought of disappointing his little brother. Again. For failing to live up to the measure his brother, his father expected from him, counted on getting from him. He almost started when Sam spoke at his side.

"Right. So like Tim said, we're going to need to make a fast escape tomorrow, Speed Racer," Sam insisted, giving Dean a look of absolute faith with a dash of little brother worship in the mix. "And you need to ice up your ribs and stay off your leg."

"I'm …" Dean began, stammered really, too grateful and too overwhelmed to gloss over Sam's loyalty to him, belief in him.

"Fine, yeah. Course you are," Sam cut in lightly, believing Dean was about to embark on his standard, I'm-not-hurt routine. "But if it were me facing my dream of racing tomorrow, I would want to go into it as strong as I could."

Wrestling his emotions back under control, Dean good-naturedly said with a smirk to Sam, "Nag, nag, nag.." giving Sam what he expected, maybe what he even wanted. After all, who was he to trot out a chick flick moment if Sam wasn't game? But then his heart sped up at the truth: He was racing tomorrow. And it wasn't for his life, wasn't for Sam's life, was just cause….he wanted to, because he could, because he had the talent…and because he had a little brother willing to blackmail and to con so he could get that chance, could find himself sitting on that start line…with a shot at the finish line. Giving a warm look to Sam, he laughed when Sam frowned back at him, gave a shrug of his shoulders in question. "Right now, you win, Sam," he awarded with a smile, because Sam had just maybe earned this moment.

Confusion crinkling his brow, Sam shook his head. "Win what?"

'_The bestest brother award_' went through Dean's head but aloud he answered, "The biggest nag in the history of nags." Because after all, who said it took two to make a chick flick moment complete.

But Sam didn't protest the title, knew in his heart the award he had really won in his brother's eyes. "You always told me to try my best at whatever I do, Dean. I'm just following your advice, like I always do."

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed back, easily reading the look in Sam's eyes. Some awards weren't verbally bestowed, some were given in a look. When Sam fell into step beside him as they headed toward the garage housing the Impala, Dean realized that having someone ready and willing to stand at your shoulder was an award in and of itself. One he didn't plan on taking for granted again.

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TBC

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Hope that was enough to keep you interested until I wrap this thing up.

Thanks so much for everyone who gave me encouragement on the last chapter and for those still tuning in to the story.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	15. Team Sports & Cheering Sections

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 15: Team Sports and Cheering Sections

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When the motel door opened, Dean didn't look up from his task of wrapping his ribs, strove to seem unruffled that Sam had caught him in the act. But under his brother's scrutiny, he forcibly stowed away the wince that had accompanied his actions two seconds early and braced himself for Sam's lecture quoted straight out of a medical journal. '_Wrapping injured ribs might cause pneumonia…increases the chance of internal contusions…blah blah blah.'_

Sitting the to-go breakfast boxes onto the table and shucking out of his coat, Sam quietly offered "Let me help," as he crossed the room to his brother's side. Instead of the expected protest, his good intentions caused Dean to snap his head up and level a look at him that implied Dean was suspicious that he was a doppelganger instead of his brother. "What?" he asked quietly, without accusation, hands raised at his side, purposefully not touching Dean until he got the all clear sign.

"Help?" Dean parroted back, eyebrows arched, wondering if Sam had decided to _drink_ his breakfast before he returned to their room.

Misinterpreting Dean's words as protest not confusion, as shocked not pleasantly amazed, Sam firmly stated, "Yeah, Dean, help." Purposefully, he altered his stance from meek to resolute.

For a beat, Dean silently studied his brother, recognized the determination in his brother's body language, could read the earnest desire to just help him in Sam's eyes. Knew none of this was about gauging his weakness or strength, about someone winning or losing, was simply about family taking care of family. "Alright, have at it," he willingly capitulated as he raised his arms, gave Sam free access to his ribs. Secretly only too happy to abandon the vexing bandage into his brother's capable handling.

Feeling as if he were stepping into a trap, Sam hesitated, gave Dean an accessing look. Sensing no ulterior motives, he sat down on the bed beside his brother and took up the dangling end of the bandage. With gentle, too well practiced hands, he began to wrap the bandage over Dean's ribs, to conceal the colorful bruising, to pretend it wasn't there, wasn't a factor in Dean's chances in the race today, of winning, of not getting hurt further. "The second the race is over, this comes off, Dean," he said calmly without looking up from his task, hoping Dean didn't object to the command, that he didn't accuse him of overstepping his boundaries, of trying to pull rank on him. Though, honestly, he knew he wasn't going to back down, not about this, not about his brother's health, not again.

Knowing Sam was letting him off the hook pretty lightly, Dean looked at Sam's bowed head, his brother's face hidden from him. But Sam's body language, it said as much as his facial features would have. It told him that Sam wouldn't budge on this issue, was giving him free reign now only because he understood the necessity, his need to race. '_I can give Sam this round_,' he thought, said aloud, "Needs to be tighter, Sam."

When Sam's head came up at the order, a protest forming on his lips, Dean casually explained, "It stops my ribs from shifting." He left unsaid that it also cut down on his pain, met Sam's probing look evenly as if he had nothing else to declare. After all, he wasn't a fool. Sure Sam was "letting" him race now but one faltering misstep, one wrong admission and he knew Sam would suddenly morph into their Dad. Sam would get that clench in his jaw, could get that growl in his voice, would become the unmovable mountain their father had been. And Dean had no desire to face off with 'immovable mountain Sam', had watched his father do it too often to fool himself into thinking a victory would be easy…maybe even possible.

Fighting back the urge to tell Dean that maybe this wasn't the best time for him to jump in a race car, Sam remained motionless, his eyes fixed on Dean. He struggled to read his brother's face for things Dean wouldn't admit, like being in fierce pain. Finding that, he badly wanted there to be honesty between them.

Though Dean didn't speak, Sam pinpointed when his brother weaken his fortifications, allowed him to see his entreaty for him to let it go, to bury his worry, to not make a big deal out of his injuries. Saw Dean's need to not feel weak, vulnerable, saw also his determination to not fail at what he set out to do. Could also sense that Dean wanted his help and not just in wrapping his ribs, wanted his help to see this through, to give him the ability to believe in himself. '_The way I believe in him_.'

"Tell me if I make it too tight," Sam quietly requested, noting Dean's look of gratitude before he shifted his focus again to wrapping his brother's ribs, to ensuring that Dean was in as little pain as possible, was as prepared as he could be to race. '_As prepared as he can be sporting injuries that other people would be in the hospital for._' He nearly loosened the bandage when Dean breathed in a sharp intake of air, might have if Dean's hand hadn't landed on his, stilling his motions and keeping the bandage right where it was, as tight as it was.

"You're doing good, keep going," Dean encouraged, knew his breath was a little short, didn't have to see the look in his brother's eyes as they met his to know Sam had heard it. "I'm good, Sam," he reassured, saw a flash of scorn in his brother's face before Sam refocused on his ribs, on doing what he needed him to do.

A few minutes later, Sam fastened the end of the bandage, eyed up his work from the front, back and side before he sat back on the bed, dared to look at Dean's face, to see what level of pain his brother was in. But Dean had on his Texas hold'em poker face. Whatever pain Dean was in, he wasn't sharing with the class. And somehow that only made Sam's worry spike. '_After all, we're talking about the guy who walked miles through a forest without telling me the Benders had branded his shoulder. Is the same guy that drove hundreds of miles with a bullet hole in his shoulder. Bullet that I put there…well Meg put there using me as a weapon against Dean. And I proved to be a weapon more deadly than any found in the Impala's trunk because he didn't even try and defend himself, not when it would have meant hurting me. Jerk._' That reawakened guilt caused Sam's old fear to mix with his new, made him break his vow of silence on the subject of worry, and '_are you up for this_' and '_I won't be able to live with myself if anything happens to you today._'

"This isn't your only shot to race, you know," Sam said lightly, head bowed, eyes averted from Dean's. But it felt like an anvil was sitting on his chest as he struggled to get his next words out. "We can find another track in a few weeks. Tim will give you a reference…and I'll blackmail Garner into giving you a glowing recommendation." And he knew he was trying too hard, to be accommodating, to not let his words, his suggestion come out as worry, to make sure that Dean didn't think _for a minute_ that this was about any lack of faith or trust he had in him, or in his driving skills.

Dean, though surprised that it had taken Sam so long to try and deter him from racing that day, was touched at his brother's offer to simply postpone his racing adventure, not squash it, not forbid it. Turning to face Sam, he sat there a moment, reading the worry in his brother's eyes, feeling guilty for putting it there even as he knew he wasn't going to backdown, not this time. Was going to be selfish…only hoped he wouldn't pay too high a price for it, that it wouldn't cost Sam anything. "I want this, Sam," he quietly admitted, praying that the truth wouldn't hurt Sam. But when Sam ducked his head, he knew that his actions affected his brother, that they weren't free agents even when it came to non hunting situations. They were bound together by more than the family business, by the truths they knew, by the danger they faced. They were bound together by brotherhood, even when they pretended to be strangers to one another, even when sometimes it felt like they were strangers, their experiences, their opinions, their reactions so vastly different as to be opposing. Looking down at his hands loosely clasped together, Dean sighed, ridiculed himself for thinking this would be easy…for him or Sam. That being selfish didn't always come with a cost.

"You deserve this, I know that," Sam's quiet, too low voice brought Dean's head up only to find his eyes colliding with Sam's. "After all you gave up for our family…for me…"

"And I would do it all over again, Sam. I would," Dean hurriedly vowed with conviction, disappointed that Sam's answering smile was so small, so quick, so full of hurt.

Sam didn't doubt Dean's vow, not for a second and it gave him peace even as it made his gut clench in sorrow. Dean would do it all over again, all of it, willingly. '_He shouldn't have to..should never had had to sacrifice as much as he had. Shouldn't have to be ashamed, to feel guilty for wanting something for himself.'_ Levelly meeting Dean's gaze, he quietly inferred with gentleness, acceptance not accusation, "But part of you…part of you regrets your obedience to Dad, all that you had to sacrifice."

"Not regrets….just I wonder sometimes, Sam," Dean clarified with a tug of a smile on his lips, a tinge of yearning in his eyes for the future that could have been. "You at Stanford, me working at some garage…" he envisioned, his voice wistful, teasing.

"You racing for NASCAR," Sam proudly tacked on, heart lightened to see Dean almost blush with the praise, the dream, with his belief in him.

"You defending me when another driver sues me for slugging them in the infield after they wrecked me," Dean gave another scenario, smile brightening, relishing the idea.. of racing, of getting into a fist fight on live tv..of Sam ready and willing to defend him in court and out of it.

"Not to mention all your NASCAR fines you, of course, would want to fight. I wouldn't need any other clients, defending you would be a full time job," Sam joked with a snort.

For a beat the brothers looked at one another and then they chuckled together as if on cue, laughed at their perceived antics in a future that would never be. A future that was a bittersweet, intangible dream but a future where they would have still be bound together, would have still been brothers to a depth that few others could understand, let alone feel.

Letting the chuckle die down in his chest, Dean met Sam's eyes. He spoke even as he wondered if he should, if the words should be said, if he had a right to this, this chance, this dream, this selfishness. "I just need to do this Sam, to know I can do it. Even if I do it badly, it will still mean something to me. Prove that I'm not just Dad's son, your brother, a hunter. You told me I was more than that…I want to know that in my gut, Sam. I need to know that. And I know I'm being self .."

"Alright then we'll do this," Sam firmly cut in because he didn't want Dean to ask him for what was rightfully his all along. Didn't want Dean to think it came down to a choice between racing and his loyalty to him. Equally didn't want Dean to think he was doing this alone, that it wasn't going to be "we" from here on out, that Dean wasn't stuck with his little brother and there was nothing he could do about it.

Dean almost shook his head to clear it. Surely he hadn't heard his brother's words correctly, was misreading the look in Sam's eyes. Was only hearing, seeing what he wanted to…Sam saying they would do this together, Sam looking at him with pride and resolve…not censure and disappointment. But Sam's look did not change and he didn't recall his words, meant them, was going to stand by him today, through his selfish act. Realized…accepted that this wasn't going to be something Sam held over his head, used as evidence that he wasn't as committed to hunting, to him, to saving him as he had swore he was. No, Sam was going to sit up in the stands and cheer him on, was going to be _proud of him_, win or lose. And Sam would not leave his praise unvoiced either. Would not be like their father, would not keep alive the old traditions where accusations were leveled, praise was only doled out regarding a hunt and loyalties were tested, were always tested with fire, and his had always been found wanting even after all his sacrifices.

Seeing sadness flicker in Dean's eyes, Sam stilled, wondered if he had said the wrong thing, gave the wrong signal. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Shaking his head, Dean looked away, was ashamed his voice was as rough as it was when he made his reply, "Nothing, just thinking about what Dad would be saying to me right now." Then he faced Sam and put on a smile that lacked the nuances of mirth, did a poor job of hiding his inner turmoil from his brother.

Swallowing, Sam wished he couldn't easily predict what his father's words would be. Wished he could convince himself that his father would have let Dean do this, would have wanted Dean to taste his dream, would have told Dean he was proud of him. Wished he could lie to Dean and tell him their Dad would have cheered him on, would have been sitting in the stands telling everyone it was his son driving the #36 car. '_But he wouldn't. He would react the same way he did when I said I was going to college, would treat it as a weakness…would view it as a betrayal.'_

Sam knew that there had been enough lies between he and Dean lately, with their father's death, with their father's final words. He didn't want more, didn't want to open the chasm they were slowly, carefully mending closed, more each day. So, biting his lip, he nodded in somber understanding, didn't utter the lies, the false hope. Their Dad had loved them, yes. But, in his desperation to protect his sons, he had also hurt them in more ways than he would ever know. He felt pain shaft in his chest as Dean sighed, nodded his head, neither of them doubting John Winchester's reaction. "I know it probably doesn't mean as much but…I'm here, Dean and I'm proud of you. I want this for you…" Sam stalwartly declared, the shine of tears that glistened in his brother's eyes appreciation enough of his words, his encouragement, his pledge. "Course if you choke…I'm disowning you…" he joked, knew Dean, like a man trapped in a burning house, would desperately want an escape to the chick flick moment.

Dean gave a bark of laughter, unwilling to swap his little brother's presence at his side for anything…or anyone. "Yeah, thanks for that, Sammy. You really know how to stand beside a guy in need," he sarcastically growled as he pushed himself off the bed, wasn't surprised that Sam matched his motions, that he could sense his brother's hands hovering at his back, ready and willing to help him if he needed it. "Right Sam, you're so cold hearted I'm getting goose bumps," he sarcastically drawled, pointedly nodding to Sam's hands that were ready to make a grab for him.

With a fleeting blush of embarrassment, Sam dropped his hands but didn't move back from Dean. "Well remember this Dean, if you get hurt today, you're going to have to listen to my music for a month as payback…and I won't make any pie runs and…"

"Won't happen, Sam," Dean promised firmly, his eyes telling Sam that he had no intentions of breaking his vow, come Hell or high water.

"Make sure it doesn't, Dean," Sam shot back almost heatedly, sounding a little too much like John Winchester for his own comfort. "Just…be careful, Dean," he tacked on, words soft as he slipped back into who he was: the imploring little brother who needed his big brother to stick around, to be safe…well as safe as their lifestyle allowed either of them to be.

"Always," Dean quirked back, lips turning up into a true smile that reached his eyes this time.

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffed but he took a step back, gave Dean space to maneuver about the room. Felt some of his fear tack down because Dean had made him a promise and his brother, he kept his promises. But the realistic part of Sam knew that there were some things even his big brother wasn't invulnerable to. '_Like Semi trucks and reapers and death.._' "Shut up!" he lowly murmured, cursing his mind for going there, for flashing pictures of Dean lying so still in that hospital, seemingly so broken, so willing to leave him.

"Shut up, I didn't even say anything," Dean groused from across the room, even as he continued rummaging through the closet for the right shirt.

"Ah…nothing, just…nothing," Sam stammered as he sank down on the bed, watched Dean from across the room and began to utter a mantra of prayers that his brother wouldn't get hurt today, wouldn't be taken away from him. Prayed that, just this one time, getting what one of them wanted didn't end up costing them more than they were willing to ever lose.

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A knock on the garage door snagged all three men's attention from their final inspection of the #36 car. As Tim beckoned, "Yeah, come in," Sam and Dean exchanged matching expressions of dread across the car's open hood. Going another round with Garner wasn't exactly on their pre-race schedule.

But it was Karl Phillips who stepped from the sunlit outside world into the shadowed interior of the garage. A measure of uncertainty conflicted with the determined set of the man's jaw. His expression of strength turned his burn, which sought to distort his features, into an acceptable even expected characteristic of his face. The burn had not the power to truly diminish the man's rugged handsomeness.

"Karl!" Tim warmly greeted and instantly stepped forward to engulf the man into a careful, but firm hug. "Man, I've missed you." Pulling back, he gave the wounded man his full eye contact, didn't give one flinch at the sight of the small section of marred skin on his friend's face. "I wanted to come see you but…well, that wife of yours, she's harder to get around than Richard Petty in his prime."

With his lingering fears about his reception melted away by Tim's unchanged attitude toward him, Karl found himself chuckling. "Yeah, I picked the right girl." Shuffling his feet, he chastised himself for not trusting Tim and the other members of the track with his vulnerability, his deformity before now. "I shouldn't have…I…" but, seeing that Tim wasn't looking for an apology, didn't want one, he switched gears, said instead, "I heard about Rook. I can't believe he's gone…wish I had talked to him before…" shaking his head, he stopped talking, bowed his head. Though he knew it was useless to think of could have beens and should have beens, he couldn't help regret that he had been too absorbed with his own self-pity and fear, had thrown away his chance to spend more time with Rook. Time he couldn't get back again, ever.

Understanding Phillips' regrets and still emerged in his own sorrow at Darien Rook's death, Tim's voice was rough with emotions when he spoke. "I'll miss Darien. Kid was almost too nice for the sport. I miss them all." Then, meeting his friend's eyes head on, he earnestly admitted, "I'm glad we didn't lose you too, Karl. Thought we did even after your accident. Glad someone kicked some sense into you, got you back here with the people who care about you… where you belong." Smiling, he gave the other man's shoulder a squeeze.

"Guy that did the kicking is your new driver," Karl revealed, jerking his chin toward Dean, who had come around the car to stand beside Sam.

Turning around, Tim faced Dean with a smile. He shook his head in a 'I should have known' gesture as Karl stepped by him and headed toward one of his new favorite people in the world.

When Karl extended his hand, Dean shook the other driver's hand with a genuine smile. "Glad you took me up on my invitation."

"Hard not to after you pointed out anyone who proclaimed himself as this track's historian had to be here today and tomorrow to see real history in the making. Not to mention you talked to my wife, told her you thought it would do me some good, being at the track, seeing everyone," Phillips returned, a slight edge to his tone.

Confident that he had done the right thing by pressuring Karl to come to the track, especially after watching Tim affectionately greet Karl, and seeing the light coming to life again in the wounded driver's eyes, Dean didn't offer up an apology for his strong handed tactics. Instead he dropped his reinforced mask and offered Karl his hard won advice. "Man, I know about cutting yourself off from the world, from the people who care about you. Trust me, it's a lonely, crappy road that you don't want to stay on."

Karl almost railed against Dean's words, at the younger man's audacity to give him advice when he didn't bear the scars he did, hadn't endure the pain he had. But he stopped himself because he could see it now, was _allowed_ to see it now: the pain that flickered in the green eyes that were older than his years, the scars that weren't visible on the outside but were there all the same, the heavy burden he bore at having made tough choices, being right as well as being wrong. It made Dean's words hit home with him, hard. Made him realize that good advice.. sometimes it came from unexpected sources.

Watching Phillips' residual anger fade to understanding, even gratitude, Dean lightly added, "Besides, I wanted you here for more selfish reasons…to join my cheering section of one," and he jerked his head toward Sam.

Smirking, Karl accepted, "I'm not opposed to rooting for the underdog."

"Thanks," Dean groused back lightheartedly, feeling like he had already won a victory that day by getting Karl onto the race fairgrounds, back into the circle of his friends.

Then seriousness again settled over Karl as his look encompassed both Winchesters. "Dean, Sam, thanks for…" But he broke off, didn't know how to voice all that he was grateful for to the two men. Men who hadn't known him but who had come into his home to reassure him that he wasn't crazy, who had given him purpose again by asking for his help to gather information on the track, who had called him in the middle of the night to tell him that Barton was gone, to reassure him that the experience that had almost destroyed his belief in himself would not happen again. And then Dean had taken one more step by inviting him today, had cared enough about a _stranger_ to encourage him, to goad him, to manipulate him into facing his friends, to step onto the track fairgrounds again. To not quit. "Thanks for what you did. All you did," he finally managed, eyes again resting on Dean, knew it was so little to say when what he owed was so great.

Always uncomfortable with honest gratitude, Dean gave a small nod at the wounded driver's words. Watched as Sam shook Phillips' hand and kindheartedly said, "Don't mention it." Then Karl turned back to him, gave him a smile.

"Good luck today," Karl offered truthfully before he turned around, made steady but careful progress out the garage door.

Feeling Sam's attention on him, Dean turned to his brother. Met with Sam's sappy smile, he lowly growled, "Don't say anything."

Laughing at Dean's wish to avoid any acknowledgement of his Good Samaritan actions, Sam unmercifully taunted, "Say what? That you're more of a sap than I am? That you're practically family councilor material? That what you did was '_nice_'?!"

"Like you have room to talk!" Dean shot back, prepared to unveil the card he had been keeping in reserve. "You're the one that blackmailed Garner into using his _brother's_ junk yard to get parts to fix the Impala when you could have asked for money to cover the repair costs. So who's trying to be family councilor of the year, Sammy?"

Chagrined that he had, just that morning, again boldly congratulated himself on pulling that one over on Dean, Sam huffed, "Hey, you're the one who said since our family's so screwed up we should help other families, Dean. I'm just taking notes from my big brother, you know."

"I didn't say that," Dean objected but at Sam's raised eyebrow of protest he backed down, "well not those exact words." But he knew he had lost the argument when Sam crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the car and stared him down. "Alright, fine, so we both did an _amazing_ job of following that particular Winchester code this gig. You want a metal or a chest to pin it on, Sammy?"

Sam almost contradicted Dean's words, knew that keeping families together, putting them back together, it wasn't a _Winchester_ code…it was a _Dean_ code. And he was proud of Dean for it, always had been. "Just buy me a drink tonight and I'll consider it reward enough," Sam counter offered.

Feeling as if he had gotten off lightly but unwilling to question Sam's ulterior motives for his easy terms, Dean agreed with a firm nod, "Deal." Then, before Sam could realize he capitulated too easy, he walked over to Tim, started talking about the track's conditions and how long it would take until the car's tires got hot.

He and Dean sitting in some unknown bar that night, to Sam it seemed a simple enough request. Dean being alive and well in a few hours, that didn't seem like an unreasonable or greedy requirement. Not having to watch his brother get hurt again, surely he had earned that margin of mercy.

Sam couldn't remember ever anticipating having a drink with someone as badly as he did just then. '_A drink with __my brother__'_, he empathically clarified, fearing that a loophole would jeopardize his fervent wish from coming true. Because, he knew that, as much as Winchesters had a knack for slipping out of loopholes, they also had the bad luck to get tangled up in them too.

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Leaning against the workbench beside Dean and his brother, Tim took a swallow of water as he eyed up the race car. He remembered the countless times he had readied the car for Troy, watched as Troy paced back and forth, checked to make sure his lucky socks were on, barely took a breath to breathe as he recounted racing trivia. In contrast, Dean Winchester was motionless, appeared immeasurably calm, didn't prattle on or superstitiously clutch onto a good luck charm. '_Unless I count the necklace he refused to take off_,' he amended, remembered how his instruction to remove the piece of jewelry had seemed to steal the air from the room. How Dean _and_ Sam had stiffen even at his suggestion. Vividly remembered the way Dean's eyes had slipped to Sam, conveyed something to his little brother before Dean firmly replied, "I don't take that off." And that had been it, end of discussion.

Looking to his watch, Tim nearly sighed. Some traditions were a royal pain in the butt even if they were necessary evils. "Time for the Team Garner meeting," he announced as he stood up, tossed his water bottle onto the table and eyed Dean.

"Really?" Dean asked, hoping Tim was joking. Reading the sincerity in the other man's eyes, he whined, "Ah crap." Resigning himself to going another fifteen rounds with Garner, he trudged behind Tim who was already heading out the door. He had barely gone three steps before he stopped, realized that Sam wasn't following him. Turning around, he saw that his brother was still leaning against the work bench, head bowed now, seemingly without any intentions of following him. "Come on," he ordered, snapping his fingers.

Raising his head, Sam said with a light laugh, "Dean, I'm not part of the team," but inside it was tearing him up, the disassociation, the division, Dean going where he couldn't go, wasn't allowed, maybe wasn't welcomed. It felt like it always did when he couldn't go with Dean, when his Dad said he was too young for a hunt, when Dean said he was going somewhere _alone_.

Instantly, Dean gruffly stated, "Yes you are," his eyes glinting dangerously, ready to take up the gauntlet if anyone questioned that truth, even Sam.

Warmed by his brother's declaration, Sam smiled that small smile that would have been a blush on someone less controlled. Abandoning his dejected pose, he strode toward Dean. Noted that Dean didn't start walking until he was a step away, was certain he wouldn't veer off. With a wider smile, Sam followed his brother out the door. Whatever Team Garner could dish out, Team Winchester could handle on their worst days.

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As he entered Garner's office, Dean felt the temperature drop in the room and knew, for once, it had nothing to do with spirits. '_Still involves malice_,' he amended as the two occupants in the room, Kentworth and Anderson, tracked his entrance into the room without even the veneer of civility.

Standing beside Anderson who was sporting a racing suit, same as Dean, Kentworth seemed painfully out of place in his street clothes. It screamed that he wasn't getting his shot at racing, not today…and not tomorrow. Had absolutely no hope to snag a NASCAR ride.

Dean almost fidgeted in his own racing suit, suddenly felt unworthy again…especially when he knew he was responsible for Kentworth not getting a chance at his dream. When Kentworth approached, Dean braced himself, could feel Sam at his side doing the same thing. But Kentworth clipped his shoulder, bitterly undertoned, "Tell me again how sorry you are for totaling my car," on his trek to the liquor cabinet.

Grimacing at the man's rightful anger, Dean dropped his head slightly and found a space on the side of the room to stand. He knew he could make amends to Kentworth, could give up his spot on the team, knew just as certainly that he wasn't willing to do that. He had come too far, felt the rush of anticipation churning in his gut too strongly to turn back now. Couldn't give it up to appease the guilt he felt over his part in Kentworth's losing his chance to race..wondered if he would even agree to walk away now if _Sam_ asked him to.

Claiming a spot by Dean's shoulder, Sam quietly asked, "You alright?" At his inquiry, he received a solemn look from Dean before his brother gave a minute nod. Before he could say anything more, Garner breezed into the office, came to lean confidently against the front of his desk and swept his gaze over his racing team.

"We all know this isn't business as usual, not with what's on the table for today's race and certainly not considering what's up for grabs in tomorrow's. So let's get things straight: There is no team playing out there today, no blocking for your teammate, no holding back, no kid gloves." He turned to acknowledge Tim's angry stance, "I know, I know, it goes against all your good ole boy rules, Tim. Well this isn't the time for sentimentality or brotherhood."

At Garner's choice of words, Sam stiffened as if a cutting insult at been hurled directly at him. He felt anger flare in him anew for the man's manipulation of him and Dean, for making them hide their brotherhood, for asking them to discount it. For treating it with so little respect…like he was asking these men to do.

Pushing away from his desk, Garner stepped in front of Anderson. "It's time to win or call it a career." Anderson simply gave a cocky smile in return, as if victory was a foregone conclusion. Kentworth took the words more to heart.

"Where does that leave me, huh?" Kentworth spat, downed his drink before slamming his glass back onto the counter. "Still your dog on a leash, kept around only to block for your favorites, make sure no one gets by them, that no one out drives them. First I did it for Troy, now you've got me doing it for Anderson."

"You should be kissing my feet I'm still letting you drive," Garner drawled, turning to face his unexpectedly recalcitrant driver.

"Letting me drive," Kentworth scoffed with a bitter laugh. "You're not letting me drive, you're letting your mechanic drive my car, you let your mechanic total my car. Guess if you can't see your dream come true of Troy going to NASCAR then you don't want any of your drivers to get a contract."

A dangerous glint sparked in Garner's eyes as he stepped closer to Kentworth. "What did you say to me?" his tone a deadly quiet murmur of words.

Kentworth ignored the warning sighs, waged his own battle for his dreams instead. "Let me drive the #36 car. Have the stones to try for the NASCAR contract."

Roughly Garner wrapped his hand painfully around the back of Kentworth's neck, drew the man closer. "The way I see it…my best bet at getting a NASCAR contract for one of my drivers…is to not waste a car on you, Danny."

"He's a mechanic!" Danny Kentworth thundered, pointing to Dean, enraged at the sight of Dean standing there, wearing a racing suit that was rightfully his. "He totaled my car!"

"My car, Danny," Garner corrected lowly, jerking the man in his hold. "They are all my cars and I say who drives them. And Dean over there…he has what you only wish you had."

"What's that? A job on the track to fall back on after he chokes today?" Kentworth sneered.

"Ability and heart, Danny. He has the heart to win, the guts to take risks to win. And as for him totaling your car…you panic when your steering gets a little loose. What makes you think you would have survived the mechanical trouble Dean had in your car, huh? Way I see it, man saved your life."

"You have lost your mind! Troy is dead and you can't deal with that! Can't deal with the fact that the kid you had so much faith in , he wasn't so good after all…couldn't even drive his way out of trouble to keep himself alive," Kentworth accused.

Suddenly sliding his hand forward to press against Kentworth's throat, Garner slammed the man back against the wall as his fury overcame him. It barely registered that someone was clamping down on his shoulder, was shoving his way between him and Kentworth.

"Bruce, let 'em go!" Tim shouted, bodily forcing Garner back a pace, breaking the older man's grip on Kentworth before he killed the kid. Making himself a barrier between Garner and his target, he growled, "In the world of racing we fire people Bruce, we don't kill 'em."

Bruce blinked at Tim's words, came back to himself. Pushing Tim away, he stood a moment breathing heavily, looking at Kentworth. "Get out of here before I decide to black ball you from all tracks on the east coast."

Any color in Kentworth's face disappeared as he stammered, "What …what are you saying? You're firing me?!"

But it was Tim who turned to him, gripped his t-shirt in his hands and shoved him toward the door. "I told you your temper was your worst enemy, Danny. That it would get you kicked off teams…or killed. Today you got lucky…you're still alive. Clear out your stuff and be off the track in half an hour."

Stumbling a little at Tim's shove, Kentworth stood there, shocked before he kicked the door and stalked out, leaving a depth of silence in the room.

Dean looked to Sam, gave a jump of his eyebrows at the theatrics, easily conveyed his thoughts of '_And I thought our family had our rows_,' as if he had telepathy. Sam smothered his smirk at his brother's expression. Darn Dean for his ability to make a joke out of the most awkward moments.

"Well…I think I've got the gist of the game plan," Anderson drawled as he headed for the door. Before he disappeared out the door, he gave Dean a two fingered salute that held not one shred of camaraderie. Had he seen the gesture, Garner would have been proud.

With only the Winchesters, Tim and Bruce left in the room, Dean stepped toward Garner, drawled sarcastically, "Well, I can't wait to hear the pep speech you got planned for me."

"Pep speech? Nah, no pep speech for you," Garner darkly reassured. "What I have for you is pure incentive. You don't qualify today, you don't end up in the top ten…Tim's gone and I will make sure he's banned from every track known to man. I'll make sure he doesn't get a job even in a hick town garage. How's that for motivation?"

Dean unleashed his deadliest smile and shook his head as he stepped into Garner's personal space. "Way I see it, you should be glad Troy's not here to see you sell out the sport he loved."

Garner struck out with a right cross but Dean caught the older man's fist in his hand, brought the man's angry momentum to a grinding halt. Crushing Bruce's hand in his grip, Dean lethally threatened, "You screw Tim over and having a ghost problem again will seem like the good news." Then he shoved Garner's hand away and stalked out the door, Sam suddenly there, matching him stride for stride.

Rubbing his hand and fighting down the shamed blush in his cheeks, Garner didn't speak for a moment, didn't look to Tim who remained immobile. He almost winced when Tim shuffled forward.

"I came to work for you because I could see you were a guy that loved the sport. If that guy I used to know doesn't show up soon, I'll be gone before next weekend's race. Of my own free will," Tim warned, wanted to believe the part of Garner he had once respected was still there, hadn't died with Troy.

Facing Tim, Garner snorted, "Next weekend's race? Whether I fire you or not is being decided today!"

Smugly, Tim smiled. "No, it's not and you know it. This kid…he's the best this track has ever seen, Bruce," he proclaimed before he left Garner to his wounded pride.

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Taking his place in the stands, Sam was touched when he was joined by Karl Phillips and his wife and Pastor Pete. '_An official Dean Winchester cheering section has been established. Crap, that would go to Dean's head,'_ he thought with a smile. Down on the side of the tracks, he could see Tim and the mechanic crew double checking their equipment. He knew that, thanks to Anderson's ego and condescension toward his own crew members, those men were rooting for Dean as well.

As the cars lined up on the track, a myriad of emotions swamped Sam: gut wrenching fear, adrenaline fueled excitement, pride, happiness and back again to fear. He wanted this for Dean, wanted Dean to win but knew in his heart he would not put anything higher on his priority list than his brother's safety, than his brother's life. Fervently prayed that he hadn't unknowingly made that choice today, wasn't allowing Dean his dream and putting him in jeopardy.

When the pace car left the track and the race cars surged forward, Sam's heart lurched into his throat. He fisted his hands at his side as Dean's car was sandwiched between the other cars, impact seemingly inevitable. He didn't breathe until the traffic thinned out, didn't care that some cars managed to pass Dean, only cared that Dean was unscathed. So far.

Sam nearly jumped when someone spoke as they claimed the seat at his side that he had reserved.

"What did I miss?" Bobby Singer hurriedly demanded, sinking down beside Sam even as his eyes were fixed on the track. Fixed namely on car number 36 that was making a pass around two cars in the inside along the straight stretch.

Sparing a quick glance at his adoptive uncle, Sam replied, "Nothing, just the first lap," before he swung his full attention back onto his brother. He gritted his teeth as Dean's attempt to pass was blocked by one driver who nearly clipped Dean's bumper in the maneuver. Seemingly shaken, Dean pulled back…only to swerve right and zoom by the car on the high side of a turn. '_Crap, this is going to turn my hair grey before we even get half way through the race.'_

As the cars made their laps, they thinned out more, allowed some maneuverability, gave Sam a chance to take in a breath, to believe Dean wasn't in constant danger of being spun out. He forced himself to look away, to remain calm, to look to Bobby. "Bobby, hey, thanks for coming," his sincerity and gratitude evident.

Bobby met Sam's look, smiled. "Thanks for calling me, Sam. I would have hated to miss this."

Sam smiled broadly, nodded his head and refocused on the race but couldn't help voicing his thoughts. "He's going to think this is stupid."

"You calling me to come or me coming?" Bobby asked, his own focus on Dean's car as it rocketed around a corner, coming too close to the wall for Bobby's old heart.

"Both," Sam said with a laugh that sounded too nervous even to his own ears.

"Doesn't mean it was wrong..or that he doesn't appreciate it. Besides, I would have kicked your butt if you hadn't called. Ah, watch out kid!" he exclaimed as a car in front of Dean spun out.

Dean found that racing wasn't so different than hunting. He had to put everything else out of his mind but surviving, at gauging what his prey…competitors would do, had to out think them, out run them and elude them. "Crap," he yelped as a car spun out in front of him. With another car practically glued to his right side and a spinning car out his windshield, Dean knew he had few options.

Sliding forward in his seat, his heart pounding in his chest, Sam tried to brace himself to see what he feared: Dean caught in an accident. "No, no, no…" he said in a mantra of denial, protest and prayer. He couldn't lose Dean. "_We're just starting to be brothers again_," he thought, like some insidious repeat button had gone off in his head. It was about to happen all over again: Dean being hurt in a car crash, Dean threatening to go, to leave him behind. Dean not keeping his promise to not get hurt, to not stay safe, to not go any where. And all Sam could do was helpless watch, unable to help, unable to prevent it, unable to even shout out Dean's name in warning.

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TBC

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Ok, as usual, I hope you'll forgive me for being long winded. I'm trying to tie up all my loose ends and not short change the race scenes. Hope that doesn't equal tediousness for you as a reader.

Thanks for those wonderful people who encouraged me on the last chapter. It was nice to see that the story still had a following even though the update was a long time in coming.

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.

13


	16. Checkered Flag

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Since it's been a long stretch since I've updated, I'm just going to go ahead and give you the small portion I have written. Final chapter will follow when I figure out how to tie everything up nicely in a bow.

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Chapter 16: Checkered Flag

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"Crap," Dean yelped as a car spun out in front of him. With another car practically glued to his right side and a spinning car out his windshield, he knew he had few options. Trusting his instincts, he didn't touch the brakes, instead he gave the car more gas as he swerved to the left until his tires were almost treading on the infield. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the spinning car as he flew by, knew that had he had a side mirror, it would have been knocked off. He gave a yell of victory as he cleared the disaster without mishap, had could see the track ahead was peppered only with seven competitors thinking they had a chance to snatch his win from him. "Not happening, boys," Dean jovially said aloud as he passed one of those seven on the next turn.

From Sam's prospective, it had seemed like Dean was driving _into_ the spinning car's path, not away from it. With his breath trapped in his chest and his hands fisted helplessly in his lap, he watched the out of control vehicle as it headed for the infield..just where Dean decided to be. Honestly, Sam didn't know how Dean managed to skim by the wrecking car, knew there couldn't have been more than an inch between his brother's car and the spinning one. And a heartbeat after Dean blew by, the wrecked car was in the field, had crossed over the space Dean had been an instant before.

As Dean emerged unscathed, Sam found himself gasping for long denied air. It was almost pathetic how, a few moments later, Dean made passing another car seem like it was just another Sunday afternoon drive. Like he wasn't in any danger out there on the track. Bobby almost confirmed what he already knew.

"That was a close one," Bobby drawled, his own heart rate trying to find normal again. '_Figures Dean can find danger in whatever he does. Boy's trying to give me a heart attack.'_

Sam didn't reply, was too caught up watching his brother come side by side with another car as they came roaring into a turn. But they both came out of it unscathed, keeping their distance from each other. On the straight stretch, Dean pulled ahead, leaving the other driver follow him into the next turn, his front bumper practically kissing Dean's rear bumper. "Back off," Sam lowly growled, had watched enough racing to know rubbing, it was allowed …and it could wreck someone, badly.

Near the rear of the pack, a car slammed into the wall, rebounded and collided with two other cars. From there it was a pileup, involved nine cars in total. It was enough to unfurl the red flag and send the cars to the pits.

Pulling into his pit area, Dean rolled his shoulders to ease some tension in them as his tires were changed, his oil checked and his gas topped off. Looking to his left he saw Tim engaged in conversation with Garner, was glad not to be privy to it. He almost jumped when a moment later he heard Tim's voice in his headphones.

"You had me worried back there," Tim admitted, remembered the tightening in his chest when he saw the obstacle in Dean's path.

"I was a little worried myself but things played out alright," Dean returned, knew that he didn't have to do the bravado routine with Tim.

"Skill and instincts, Dean, that's what got you through that," Tim insisted, needed Dean to have confidence in himself, to know he had confidence in him.

"And luck, don't ever forget the luck part," Dean drawled with humor because, as much as Winchesters had bad luck, good luck had spared them time and time again.

"You believe in ghosts _and_ luck, man you're a freak," Tim teased, was rewarded by Dean's hearty laugh and a "shut up, dude" before Dean peeled out of the pit, was back in the race. He turned off his mike, didn't want to distract Dean while he was driving by advice the younger man clearly didn't need. Dean was a _natural. _

When Dean pitted, Sam felt tension fall away that he didn't even know he was carrying, felt the burn of clenched muscles as they eased. He spared a look to Bobby who was eyeing up the track in fascination. "Are you into NASCAR, have a favorite driver?" finding it weird that there was so much he didn't know about the older man. Knew what he had to, that Bobby would put his life on the line to protect them, had had to do it too many times lately.

"Nah, don't watch it much. And my favorite driver," Bobby pointed his chin to the track, "is coming out of the pits, is going to win this race."

Sam smiled as he looked to the track saw, without surprise, that Dean was speeding away from his pit area, was getting in line behind the pace car, was ready and capable to do exactly what Bobby said: win the race. "Yeah, he's mine too. But if you tell him that…"

Turning to Sam, Bobby vowed, "Mum's the word," a smile turning up his lips, matching Sam's. It made him remember why he had gotten so attached to these boys against his better judgment: cause they were good boys, kind hearted with loyalty that…well it clearly didn't have any boundaries. And then there was the bond between the brothers…it had weathered things countries had been divided over..but they were still bound to each other, seemingly felt stronger about each other than ever before. '_Don't get yourself hurt, you idgit,_' he silently threw out to Dean as the older Winchester again pushed his race car past the 100 mph mark, way past.

Bunched up again after the restart, Dean felt boxed in, ached for the opening to slip from the ranks and put the pedal to the metal. When he got his opening, he took it, dodged left and shot past the car he had been tailgating, passed another car on the left side and finally had enough room to open her up. And he loved it, the speed, the power of the engine, having domination over something that only a small handful of people _could _control. Beyond what his ego told him, beyond what he wanted to believe, he now knew that he was good at this, was good at something that wasn't about blood and guts, death and life, good and evil. That he could win here and make no sacrifices to do it, didn't have to worry about what anyone else wanted, about where his duty, his loyalties laid. Was just about him and the car, about being good at something other than what his father needed him to excel at. It was about him for a change, what he wanted, what he liked, what made him happy. All the things his father had never sought to give him, keep him alive. Keep him safe, keep their family safe? Yes. But happiness? Going his own way for his own reasons? That kind of thinking had gotten Sam kicked out of John Winchester's life, had gotten Sam yanked out of his life.

Swerving right and then having to swerve left when the car he intended to pass swung into his path, Dean gunned the engine, passed the car, made it look easy. In some ways it was easy, being here, letting go, pushing himself, taking risks. And in other ways, it was unbearably hard, knowing his father wouldn't approve, that Sam was sitting in those stands, was counting on him to finish well, that Tim's job depended on him getting at least into the top ten. That the other drivers on this track, their lives were in his hands as surely as his was in theirs. One miscalculation, one wrong move, and he could cost someone their life…or they could cost him his. '_Sam will never forgive me if I get hurt. Never_.'

Sam grimaced as two cars pretty far behind Dean collided and his breath caught as one car rolled, metal falling away as it came to rest in the infield on its hood. It reminded him too much of Rook's car wreck, of Dean running for the burning car, willing to risk his life to save the driver's. But this driver was crawling free of his own willpower and the car wasn't on fire.

"Man these guys are out for blood, aren't they? But I guess if this is their shot to race for NASCAR tomorrow, it's all or nothing," Bobby surmised, not liking the risks he was seeing on the track, not when Dean was among them. "Idiots better stay away from Dean," he growled, not realizing he said it aloud until he felt Sam's eyes on him. Looking to his left, he saw Sam smirking. "What? I'm not supposed to get caught up in this? You hauled me here and now you want me to sit on my hands, not care if some morons are driving reckless?"

"No. No, just haven't heard you this worked up for awhile," Sam explained with a laugh, raising his hands in supplication.

"Happens every time I'm around you two," Bobby grumbled, but there was affection in his gruff tone for the two men he had come to see as adoptive sons.

Sam couldn't help smiling as he returned his focus to the race. They were down to ten laps and Dean was in fourth position, looking for his chance to get past the third position car when disaster struck from behind. Sam saw it in slow motion, recognized the two cars involved: one being Garner's golden boy, Anderson and the other was the #77 car, a driver Sam knew wasn't from Garner's track. The #77 car was purposefully blocking Anderson from passing him, from taking the fifth position away from him. Though it wasn't an uncommon practice in racing, Sam wondered if the other driver's actions weren't attributed to some ill will, after all, he had come to know that Anderson was the champ at making enemies.

After two of his attempts to slip by #77 were blocked, Anderson went road warrior. Edging beside the other car enough to slam his front wheel into the #77's back left wheel. The brutal contact slammed the #77 into the wall and had him rebounding forward like a ball. The car came off the wall in the air, hit the ground with its front end, spiraled into the air again, impacted with the ground on the driver's side, spun into the air again sending it's trajectory on a collision course with Dean's car.

Sam surged to his feet, his brother's name caught in his throat as the airborne #77 car headed for his brother. The flipping car's passenger side glanced off the roof of Dean's car before touching down briefly right in front of Dean's grill, causing Dean's to impact with the car before the car continued on its journey of pandemonium into the infield.

Unprepared for the jarring impact on his roof or the screech of metal on metal, Dean ducked down even as his car's rear wheels seemed to leave the ground, warning him that a forward roll might be in the cards. It was good luck that the car dropped in front of him, that his bumper caught it momentarily before the car was again flipping forward, out of his path as if it were caught in the grip of a twister. For it was that jolt to the front of his car that kept his car from actually flipping over, caused his rear tires to drop again to the race track macadam. Breath knocked out of him but his instincts never short circuiting, Dean wrestled with the steering wheel to keep the car from overacting to the abuse it had just taken. It was like driving a car without power steering but he gritted his teeth, used muscle and determination to keep the car on the track, all four tires of it.

In weak kneed relieved awe, Sam watched Dean's car miraculously survive the two pronged collision, was bursting with pride as Dean managed to keep his car moving, kept it on the track, didn't even lose his 4th position standing. Torn between wanting to throw up and cheer, Sam started to press by Bobby but the older man, who had come to his feet too, gripped his arm, stood in his path.

"Where you going?" Bobby asked roughly, confused as he could be by the notion Sam was _leaving_. That after watching his brother nearly get killed he was going to walk away.

"To stop Dean from continuing," Sam stated in a rush, trying to push by Bobby, needing to get down to track, to the pit area before the red flag was recalled, before Dean abandoned the safety of the pit area again and got himself killed…right before his eyes.

But Bobby stepped more fully into Sam's path, blocked his escape as he met the boy's scared eyes. "Is that what Dean did when you wanted to go to college, stop you?" his words gentle, not accusatory, wanted Sam to see his point, not get more hurt by it.

"Bobby, this isn't about pissing off Dad, making a life for myself. This is about Dean's life being in danger!"

"John and Dean, they thought your life was in danger if you weren't with them. But Dean still let you go because he knew it was what you wanted, would make you happy…even if it didn't make him happy," Bobby voiced his long held back opinion on the great Winchester divide. Knew how badly Dean had missed his brother when Sam had left, how hurt he was when Sam purposefully severed the ties to make his new life. But he understood too, Sam's bid for freedom, for a life that was safe, normal.

Sam's eyes nervously looked from the pit area where they were working on Dean's car back to Bobby, knowing his time was running out. "But I wasn't in danger….Dean is. Bobby if something happens to him…" the rest of the words choked back as he clenched his jaw shut, remembered too vividly Dean after the car accident, Dean on life support, the doctors having to revive Dean after his friggin' _heart_ stopped.

"I know," Bobby gently, lowly preempted, saw the start in Sam's eyes at his admission that didn't need more words. Yeah, Bobby knew what would happen if Sam lost his brother, had realized it when Sam had leaned against a practically totaled Impala nearly a year prior. "And somewhere in that thick head of his, Dean knows it too. He's not going to leave you alone without one heck of a fight Sam. And this.." he began, pointing to the race track, "he's good at this Sam. 'Bout as good as he is hunting. You trust him on hunts, trust him now."

Understanding that it came down to trust, always did with their family, Sam nodded and sank into his seat, but couldn't help grumble under his breath, "But on a hunt, I have his back."

Reclaiming his own seat, Bobby watched Sam's jaw jump again. "You have his back here too, Sam. You got him into this race…

"Yeah, brilliant idea," Sam snorted, hating himself for that generosity right then.

Bobby talked over Sam, "**you had faith in him,** in his abilities. That's more than enough for Dean, that and you sitting here, rooting for him."

Bowing his head and running a hand through his hair, Sam exhaled, "Why couldn't he like to golf…or bowl," but he laughed even at the notion, was joined by Bobby's chuckle.

"Yeah, like that would happen. Dean choosing something _safe, _something normal_," _Bobby scoffed.

"He hates normal as badly as he hates safe," Sam revealed with a sigh, watching as the cars were again lining up behind the pace car. "But I **hate** when he puts himself in danger.." he confessed, meaning so much more than racing, referring to every day of their lives, every job they did for their family business.

"You don't have to love it…you just got to love him," Bobby offhandedly advised, eyes on the track, purposefully not wanting to see the look in Sam's eyes at his chick flick comment that would have had Dean gagging if he heard it.

But Sam, he was choked up, but gagging, no? Not even close. Looking at Bobby, reading the man's discomfort at his own words, Sam smiled. Bobby knew them pretty well, knew him pretty well. He didn't have to respond aloud, Bobby already knew the truth. Loving Dean, that was as entrenched into him as keenly as breathing. He burst into a chuckle as Bobby threatened a moment later, "You tell him I said that, any of this and you're sleeping out with the dogs on your next visit."

"You said something?" Sam sallied back with a smirk, earning a matching expression from Bobby before they returned their attention to the cars finally freed from the pace car's lead.

Dean came out of the gate in the second row, neck and neck with the third position ride. And directly behind him, in the sixth position, was Anderson. When Anderson nudged him, Dean cursed but had no where to go as boxed in as he was. Another impact jarred him and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Garner had said every team member for themselves and, for Anderson, that was a green light to come after him. After biding his time, waiting for the opening, it had finally come.

When the string of cars went into the first turn since leaving the pit, Dean tramped down on the gas. As the car in front of him moved down into the turn, he maneuvered his car up past the car, with inches to spare. Then the next trick was to stay off the wall as the track banked sharply. Instead of easing off the gas, he gave the car more, let the passenger side of the car hover mere inches from the wall as he made the turn and was seemingly boomeranged out of the turn onto the straight patch of track, bounding past the other car to take the 2nd position.

The catch in Sam's throat at Dean's bump and tag with Anderson and then his brother's risky maneuver in the turn erupted into a "yoohoo" of joy as Dean climbed up the ranks to the number 2 position with the leader only a few car lengths ahead. "Alright Dean!" he shouted though it was drown out by the thunderous roar of the cars as they flew by the stands like they were rocket powered. But as the cars zoomed across the other side of the track, he saw Anderson had somehow managed to bypass the 3rd position car, was now catching up to Dean. Before Sam could even mentally warn Anderson to not screw around with Dean again, the driver purposefully clipped his front fender against Dean's rear bumper. Sam spit out a curse as he saw Dean's car rock with the impact but his brother soon regained control, kept the car from edging too close to the wall. But Anderson was relentless, knew he had Dean boxed in as they fly down the track, him on the left side of Dean, the wall to Dean's right and the leader in front of Dean's bumper. When Anderson wildly swerved right, Dean matched the gesture to keep their cars from slamming together, jolted as the wall took off the top coat of paint on the car's right side.

Using all his strength to keep the car from folding into the wall, Dean saw Anderson heading his way again. He had little option. Though Sam thought he was being far too reckless lately, unlike Anderson, he wasn't willing to risk someone else's life with his actions. Admitting momentary defeat, he left off on the gas, allowed Anderson to pull ahead and take the number two spot. But in the next second he dodged left, tried to pass Anderson on the inside but Anderson was instantly there, blocking him. And then it was like a mime show, when he went left, Anderson went left and when he went right…yeah, there was Anderson. Jerk was determined to hang onto 2nd, to not give any ground.

So Dean knew when he was able to pull up to Anderson's side his very next try, that it wasn't just by dumb luck. Anderson was baiting him and that was fine with Dean. Hunting was his specialty.

"Don't trust him, don't trust him.."Bobby chanted, hands fisted as he watched the action on the track with three laps to go. Knew that Anderson wouldn't lose any sleep if he wrecked Dean, not after seeing how he had purposefully wrecked the #77 car.

"He won't fall for it," Sam reassured, knew that Dean was one cunning opponent and Anderson, he was wwwaaaayyy out of his league. But he still tensed when Anderson sought to run Dean into the infield but Dean sped forward and Anderson's broad side bash turned into a front fender collision with Dean's reinforced bumper. For a moment Anderson's car swung back and forth and Sam hoped he'd end up in the infield but his tires ran a few lengths into the infield and then Anderson steered his car back onto the track..And aimed it at Dean now in the 2nd position again.

Knowing that Anderson would be coming for blood, Dean dropped down toward the infield even as Anderson came flying upward. Anderson cursed as he found himself on the right side of Dean, especially when Dean edged upward, seemed intent on putting the squeeze on him.

No longer willing to give Anderson an inch, Dean moved up toward Anderson but purposefully didn't made an aggressive move, wouldn't stoop to Anderson's tactics. But when Anderson came down the track, Dean braced himself for the impact, let Anderson take his best shot. And Anderson, he didn't disappoint but he miscalculated, hit Dean's rear tire with his own. The impact shuddered Dean's car like an earthquake but for Anderson, it was equivalent to getting manhandled by a hurricane, sent his car nearly airborne into the wall. Dean sped by as parts of Anderson's car seemed to explode from the impact. When the caution flag flapped in the wind, he blew by it in second position with two laps to go.

"Anderson, is he OK?" Dean spoke into his head gear. Sure Anderson was a dangerous jerk, didn't mean he wanted to kill him.

Tim's angry reply came back almost instantly, "Better than he should be."

"Tim…" Dean drawled and he heard Tim exhale to get a reign on his temper before he answered his question.

"Don't worry about him, Dean. He's limping away from the crash but his car, it's toast."

"Crap, Garner's gonna be pissed."

"He's the one that said every man, woman and child for themselves. He gave Anderson the AOK to play dangerous. He just didn't figure on getting bested at his own game. Nice driving, kiddo."

"I know a thing or two about surviving…"Dean casually downplayed his skill.

Tim laughed, "I bet you do. Now show everyone you know about winning too. I would wish you good luck but you don't really need it, do you?" and then Tim cut the transmission, left Dean smiling in the car, as the pace car left the arena to the combatants final rounds.

The leader took his place as they hit the gas but it was obvious that he couldn't keep Dean at bay. Dean passed him on the 2nd straight stretch of the second to last lap, made it look easy, like it was just a matter of timing until he could slide by him, claim the lead.

As Dean took the lead, Sam bolted out of his seat, was cheering, didn't realize that Bobby, Pastor Pete and the Phillips were also on their feet, championing Dean's lead. And Sam's smile only grew wider as his brother began to firmly put the previous leader in his rearview mirror. Screaming Dean to victory, Sam was half way to losing his voice as Dean maneuvered the track seemingly without a rival, left the rest of his competition in the dust as he crossed over the finish line.

Shouting out in celebration, Sam pulled Bobby into a quick hug and then he was pushing past the older man. Bounding down the stairs, he vaulted easily over the low gate and made his way toward the track, toward the #36 car that was coming to a halt in the winner's circle. He needed to get to his brother, to reassure himself that Dean had come through all of his close calls unscathed, wanted desperately to share in this victory with Dean, wanted it to be a celebration between family before the world, their world slipped back into focus. Needed to have a few minutes where it was just about them being brothers, about them being happy and safe and together.

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TBC

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Thanks for reading and for the support of your reviews! And Ami, thanks for your review this week. It gave me the courage to just post what I had already written a few weeks ago. I hope it was interesting enough to keep this story alive until I can pen the ending.

Have a great day everyone!

Cheryl W.


	17. Traveling Companions

Designated Driver

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: After many rewrites, here's the Final chapter!

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Chapter 17: Traveling Companions

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It was surreal for Dean, bringing the race car to a stop, realizing he had dodged and sped and pushed his way through a throng of race cars to cross the finish line. First, no less.

To be, in that moment, normal. Better than normal, a winner. To know that he wasn't just a hunter, wasn't just someone good at killing evil things, wasn't just some broken soul that had but one purpose in life.

That he could do more, be more than he ever allowed himself to imagine. Knew just as surely that whatever happiness he felt now, it lacked something, was missing something, that he was missing something to complete this victory. And then that something was at his door, was pulling down the window mesh, was smiling so widely it was nearly blinding.

Barely pulling up his headlong run in time, Sam skidded on the heated macadam, was a millimeter away from clipping his hip on the side of the winning #36 car when he reached the driver's side window. Before the race car's engine fell silent, he was ripping down the window's mesh to get an unobstructed view of his brother, felt the breath that had rushed from him at Dean's victory, at the run to gain his brother's side, return as Dean's eyes met his. Dean's smile and the sparkle in his eyes told him that Dean was alright, that he was allowed to intrude in his brother's moment of victory, was maybe even a crucial participant in that celebration.

Leaning down to peer into the car's window, Sam raved, "Dean, you did it! I knew you could win it!"

His little brother's unchecked enthusiasm made Dean laugh in joy. Letting out a hoot of victory, he patted Sam's hand that was coiled on the base of the window, his smile matching the brightness of Sam's. Felt like he had won a victory for both of them, that he had proved that everything they were wasn't about death and destruction, sacrifice and loss, that normal could still be there for them, would be there waiting for Sam when he wanted it again.

Knowing that there wasn't much on Dean's body that wasn't sore after all Barton had thrown at him, inside and outside of a racing car, Sam tossed his qualms about overstepping his little brother boundaries aside and reached inside the car's interior, intending to help Dean from the car. When he gripped Dean's arm with one hand, he found his brother was leaning forward so he could slip his other hand behind his back, was not resenting his help but was welcoming it. He tried not to be suspicious of Dean's capitulation, tried not to wonder how much pain his brother was in if he needed his help.

With the joint efforts of Sam pulling and his pushing, Dean came to a balance on the car's window frame without knocking his head on the car's roof or too badly shifting his injured ribs. Removing his helmet, Dean tossed it onto the roof of the car and drew in a deep breath of unfiltered air that his abused lungs had been craving. As his adrenaline high started to dissipate, a wave of lightheadedness hit him, making him glad that Sam was at his back, that Sam had his back. He was more grateful than he would ever voice when Sam slipped his arm around his waist and cautiously manhandled him free of the car.

As his brother's feet met track, Sam felt Dean's stance wobble. Worriedly he steadied Dean against his chest, maintained that pose a long moment until he sensed Dean that had regained his equilibrium, wouldn't crumble to his knees if he relinquished his hold. Quickly stalking in front of Dean, he caught his brother in a hug, albeit, in lieu of Dean's bruised body, it was a gentle, loose hug. "You were awesome, Dean!" Then he felt Dean's hands wrap around his back in reciprocation, Dean's hold tighter, mocking the careful way his little brother was treating him, like he would break if he held on too tight.

"Crap, Sam that was fun!" Dean admitted with a laugh, pulling back from Sam, his happiness at his victory nearly overshadowed by the joy in Sam's eyes, by his brother's pride _in him_, for his accomplishments.

"Fun for you…nerve wracking for me!" Sam contradicted with a laugh of his own, oblivious to everything else going on around him but his brother. "When the number 77 car hit you…and Anderson rammed you into the wall, then when you cut low then high and maneuvered Anderson where you wanted him…And then you took the lead like it was child's play, dude," he exhaled in a rush of air. But a moment later, his smile transformed into a bittersweet gesture. With a hint of sorrow in his eyes, he pointedly acknowledged, "You took the lead like it was second nature to you, Dean." Generously admitted what he had both, wanted to and didn't want to accept: that Dean was born for this, should do this, not on some backwater track but for real.

Dean stilled, knew what Sam was saying, could see the pride in Sam's eyes but could see the fear there as well. The fear that he was going to walk away, was going to choose this life over the one he had with Sam, was going to leave his brother alone for the sake of his own dreams. Before he could reply, a familiar voice had him spinning to his right.

"Nice bit of driving there, Dean," Bobby greeted, trying for nonchalant but his smile was too bright for such deceptions, couldn't conceal how tremendously proud he was of Dean. Or how happy it made him that the kid had finally gotten a chance to seek out his own dreams, even if it was just for one afternoon.

For a moment, Dean was too shocked to speak, stood staring at Bobby before he croaked out, "Bobby, what are you doing here?!"

"Oh, I don't know …heard something about you racing. Course I wasn't going to miss the chance to come see it for myself," Bobby drawled, a twinge of affectionate scoffing in his tone for the boy not knowing how far his loyalty went, for not realizing that he wanted to be more than their 911 contact, their contingency plan. Wanted to be that, sure, but more than that. Wanted to be someone they called when a celebration was in order…of any kind.

Touched by Bobby's words, by the proof that Bobby didn't just see them as fellow hunters but saw them as friends, he earnestly said, "Thanks for coming, Bobby," hoped the words conveyed how much it meant to him to have the older man there, that he had come….for him. Knowing the little bird who would have invited Bobby, Dean spared a glance to Sam, saw his brother's shy smile, remembered that same look when Sam had invited Layla to talk to him before they left that small town in Nebraska. His brother had wanted him to know that other people valued him, were in his corner, had gone out of his way to prove it, then and now. Giving Sam a smile of gratitude he turned back to Bobby.

Stepping forward, Bobby gave Dean a hug, was warmed when the tough elder Winchester wrapped his arms around him too. Pulling back, he met Dean's eyes head on, didn't want there to be any doubt about his next words. "I'm proud of you, Dean." Hoped Dean knew he had been proud of him for a long time actually, over more important things than winning some car race. Knew he had gotten through when Dean shifted and looked away, the gesture the Winchester equivalent of blushing.

Tim, feeling somewhat like he was intruding on a private moment, held back from joining the group, only advanced forward when Dean smiled at him. "You make one heck of a race car driver, kiddo," he announced with a wide smile, pulling Dean into a quick congratulatory hug before releasing him.

Dean was opening his mouth to verbally reply to Tim's congratulations when Bruce Garner pushed his way into the inner fold of Dean's supporters. Coming to a stop in front of Dean, the track owner confidently predicted, "You drive like _that_ in tomorrow's race and there's a real good chance NASCAR will consider you."

"You think so?" Dean drawled as if Garner had him on the line, like he was ready to do the track owner's bidding, would do anything to get a shot at tomorrow's race. Found he wanted to lead Garner on, wanted to punish the man for the crap he had dished out to him, for making him almost forget that family, his family came first, that Sam, his relationship with Sam, it came before _everything_.

Sure that he had all the leverage in the world, Garner smugly threatened, "But I'm the only one who can _get_ you into that race," patting the hood of the #36 car, the winning car.

"And what hoops would I have to go through for your approval?" Dean asked, knew that the more confident Garner became the better his revenge.

Garner's smile was all shark. "I just happen to have a preliminary contract drawn up already. You join my team and you'll race tomorrow, this car. But I'm telling you up front, if NASCAR selects you, there is a hefty buy out clause which is non-negotiable. Cash on the barrel head. If they don't pick you, you race for me, _my way. _But my pay's not too shabby and, as you can tell, with Tim under the hood I maintain the best cars."

Honestly, Dean wasn't prepared for the race promoter Garner persona, had expected the man to come at him swinging, at the very least cursing him for taking out Anderson, though Anderson did himself in. Had never really thought Garner would welcome him into the fold, no matter how well he placed in the race that day. It went to show that, for Garner, winning was everything, went even above his pride and prejudices.

Sam's muscles were coiled so tautly that he feared if he moved, something in him would snap. Garner was offering Dean's dream on a platter, a sterling silver platter. Everything Dean wanted, everything Dean _deserved_, it was suddenly within his grasp. He had only to say yes. Had only to turn to him, smile and say '_Sorry Sammy, it's like you said about your law school interview back at Stanford: It's my future on a platter_.' Sharply Sam remembered, when Dean told him to skip the interview, how he had railed at Dean, remembered the flare of frustration in Dean's eyes when he told him repeatedly during their search for Dad in Jericho that he had to get back to his life, to the future he wanted. Had tried to forget the hurt, the betrayal he had seen in Dean's eyes when he chose to walk away, to put the interview, _normal_ above the search for their father. When he had chosen a future without Dean instead of with him. But Dean hadn't known the way it hurt, watching the Impala pull away from his apartment, the pang of regret, of sorrow that soured his stomach as his brother disappeared out of sight, out of his life.

Sam cursed himself for not realizing how his actions, his decisions, even his words back then must have sliced into Dean. Knew it now better than ever before, knew it because he was the one that could be left behind, discarded for a future he didn't belong in, wasn't welcome in. Felt like he would be lost without Dean, would drift aimlessly for the rest of his life without the anchor that Dean had always been for him, had been even after he had purposefully cut the lines. But Sam couldn't deny Dean his future, his shot at happiness, even if he condemned himself to an aloneness he had never feared before, never feared because he had believed Dean would always be around, would come if he called him. No matter what.

Stepping closer to Dean, Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's arm, forestalling whatever reply Dean was about to make to Garner. "Dean…" he quietly requested his brother's full attention, though Dean had already turned to him in surprise. Jerking his head to the right, he stepped a few paces away from Garner, held his breath until Dean moved, complied with his wishes and came to his side. "You could do this, Dean," he proclaimed without hesitation, his voice low to make sure his words didn't carry the few yards to Garner. As a look of protest began to take shape on Dean's features, Sam continued, "I know you said you didn't want this, that you were ….Ok with our lives, with hunting but Dean…this…this is your chance and I'm not going to stand in your way. I know NASCAR isn't possible but you could throw tomorrow's race, stay under the public radar and you would still have a place here on this track. And you could change teams as often as you like, it's not like you have to worry that any contract is binding, not with the long list of aliases we have."

Dean was touched by Sam's offer, knew what it had cost _him_ to let Sam go to college, to let him leave him, realized that Sam must feel at least some of that same reluctance to let him go. "Sam, we already talked about this."

"You already paid your debt, Dean. To Dad…and to me. A thousand times over. You don't have to sacrifice the rest of your life to the hunt," but he couldn't bear to verbalize the rest. '_or_ _to me._' "Like you said, 'Why do we have to get stuck with all the responsibility? Why can't we live life a little bit.' Well, you don't have to be stuck, Dean, you can live life." '_Can be happy_.'

With his usual strong handed tactics, Garner stepped into the brothers' personal sphere. "You two joined at the hip or what? So what's the debate? How you can blackmail me into lowering the buy out fee?" his eyes settling accusingly onto Sam who gave him a close mouthed glare before the track owner turned again to Dean. "Look, the contract terms aren't set in stone. There is still room for some negotiation. Come look it over, bring your little brother if you need someone to hold your hand…" he retorted. Turning his back on Dean, he took a few steps away, certain the younger man would follow at his heels.

Without looking to Sam, Dean shortly replied to Garner's back, "Nah," with a fleeting smile.

At the negation, Garner turned around slowly as if an insult or a beer bottle had been hurled at him. Realizing that Dean wasn't budging from his spot, was wearing an uncompromising expression, Garner's brow crinkled in confusion. "No what?"

Tilting his head, Dean gave a cocky smile. "I'm gonna pass," found it was liberating, denying Garner, telling normal to go take a hike cause he didn't need it.

"Dean?!" Sam hissed, closing the distance between he and Dean that Garner's presence had created a minute before. But when Dean's eyes met his, he knew Dean wasn't taking one for the team, was content with his decision, was choosing their life over normal, was choosing him over the fanatical adoration of a stadium full of strangers.

His eyes holding Sam's for a beat until he saw that his brother saw the sincerity of his decision, Dean turned to Garner, spelled it out for the track owner. "Thanks for the offer but my brother and I, we'll be moving on."

"Moving on?! But NASCAR's coming **here**, _tomorrow._ You could go pro!" Garner thundered, finding it unfathomable that the cards he held were suddenly worthless. "I can help you get everything you've ever wanted!"

The declaration wiped the last tolerance from Dean's features and he stepped forward into Garner's personal space. "You don't have a clue what I want," he growled. Then a cruel smile turned up his lips, his eyes turning glacier as they lanced into Garner's. "But I know what _you_ want…and you're not going to get it." He jerked his head to the race track, to the other teams milling around, to the cars still finishing the race. "I'm the only person on your team qualified to race tomorrow," saw the jump in Garner's clenched jaw as the truth hit him, hard.

"Tell me your terms!" Bruce lowly shouted, hands fisted at his side, desperation replacing his confidence from a moment before.

Terms. It reminded Dean of his first conversation with Garner, the man stating his _terms_ of their _employment_, that he and Sam couldn't let anyone know they were brothers, that they even knew each other. "My terms…are non-negotiable." And it was sweet, seeing Garner's eyes alight with hope…right before he sniffed it out. "I'm walking away and tomorrow, a car is going to cross that finish line first…but it won't be one of yours."

"You son of a.."

"And it won't be Troy's," Though his tone was quiet, Dean's words cut Garner's hurled curse off like an explosion evaporates oxygen. His face twisted in anguish, Garner stepped forward, wrapped his hands in Dean's racing suit. It was then that Dean saw it, the crater in Bruce Garner that Troy's death had left behind. A crater Dean found he understood, matched the one his own father's death had scorched in his soul. "Kentworth was right, wasn't he?" Dean continued, voice almost gentle, sympathy where there might have once been accusation, victory. "This wasn't about your team getting a shot at NASCAR, it was about Troy getting a shot. You wanted this for him. And my driving his car, crossing that finish line, today or tomorrow, it will never lessen your regret that it's not Troy, that it will never be Troy."

The pain in Garner's eyes was acknowledgement enough of how right Dean was.

Giving Dean a harsh shake, Bruce hated that his breath caught, that his chin trembled. Hated more that the kid had the spirit and guts to stand up to him, was more like Troy than he wanted to admit, than he could bear right then. Hated that the younger man was telling him what he already knew. He had felt it in the pit of his stomach as he watched that #36 car streak across the finish line under a checkered flag… without Troy at the wheel: a fresh tsunami sized wave of grief. Burning eyes, a catch in his throat, a void so deep he could fall into it, it was like watching Troy's body being pulled out of the wreckage again. Felt as if he had killed Troy all over again by trying to replace him.

When Garner first gripped Dean, Sam had stepped forward, was about to pull Garner off his brother. But Dean, his eyes fixed on Garner, blindly reached out, put his arm up to block his forward motion. It was both comforting and frustrating that Dean knew what he was considering doing, even where he was standing, without needing to look. But Sam knew Dean too. Knew what his brother was intending to do, knew Dean's heart rivaled his courage. Even when it came to jerks like Bruce Garner.

Meeting Bruce's gaze head-on, Dean drawled with a bitter laugh, "Trust me, I've tried what you're doing: to fill holes in my soul with all the wrong people and with the wrong things." Remembering his own blindness when he and Sam had first encountered Gordon, he internally cringed. Sam had been right then. It was almost embarrassing, knowing now how utterly foolish and truly what an insult it had been to give Gordon one ounce of the respect he had given to his own father. But Sam, he hadn't walked away from him, hadn't even returned his punch like he had every right to do. Instead his brother forgave him, stayed by his side through his bouts of anger and loss and pain. Was still by his side even now as he was making his way out of darkness, was unearthing a truth, a truth that hurt even as it healed. "There is no replacement for someone that you lose. Guess there shouldn't be," he shrugged, wearing a sad smile. "The ones we love, they deserve to still be a part of us, even after they are gone."

Roughly, Garner shoved Dean back out of his grip, the kid's words sharp and unwelcome and true true true. Nothing had come close to filling the void Troy had made in his life and he was beginning to worry that nothing ever would. And now this kid was telling him nothing ever should ease the terrible _ache_ in him?! How did he go on? How did he heal with a gaping wound in his soul?!

"Anyway, the #36 car, it isn't Troy's legacy. Troy's wins, his skill, that is what people will remember, not the number on the side of his car," Dean declared, was aware of Sam's presence enough to sense when Sam stiffened. Shooting a worried look to Sam, he saw a flash of remembered sorrow flicker in his brother's eyes.

Dean's words sliced through Sam, made him recall standing in that junkyard off of I90, looking at the devastated Impala, telling Bobby that they weren't going to scrap the car. That car, it had felt like a representation of Dean, a part of Dean, was a way that Sam could keep Dean alive, with him, was something physical he could hold onto.

Sam's voice was hoarse when he spoke, was surprised to find himself addressing Garner, maybe even siding with the track owner, "The car, it's not just another one of your race cars. It's your last physical link to Troy. And it feels like it's all you have left of him." Feeling Dean's shift toward him in surprise, as if his big brother realized the topic hurt him, he sent a quick glance of reassurance to Dean, took comfort that Dean wasn't gone, that he wasn't left with what Garner was: with only a car instead of the one he loved.

With a hint of pity gathering in his eyes, Sam contended, "You don't really want to see that car win tomorrow, not without Troy driving it." Because his own gut churned at just the _idea _that he would letsome stranger drive the Impala, that he would ever barter away anything that Dean truly loved for something as pathetic as money..or fame. "Car's worth more to you than a hundred NASCAR contracts." '_Just like the Impala's worth more to me than any flashy new car …but not like I'm ever telling Dean that_.' Focusing on Garner, seeing that the man wasn't disputing his words, was instead, still, his stormy eyes shifting from anger to sorrow. Sam swallowed, the expression reminded him too much of the look in Dean's eyes for months after their father's death. "Keeping Troy's memory alive on this track, memories of him driving that car, you don't want them replaced. Ever." Knew that his own memories of his Dad, the good and the bad, they were all treasures now, were a part of his father that he carried with him. Just like Dean said he should.

Garner's throat was nearly closed with emotions, emotions that he had kept in check as he watched Troy's car flip and catch fire, as Troy's body was lying so still on the ground, as the casket sat waiting to be lowered into the ground. It hit him now, hard. Troy was _gone_ and he wasn't coming back. Would never again laugh at his angry tirades, or give him that cocky smile before he slid into his car, or make him feel like he was worthy of the adoration he saw in the kid's eyes.

And the two men in front of him now, they spoke a truth that both wounded him and sought to heal him: He had a part of Troy with him, would always have it with him, the memories of a young man who had been like a son to him. And the hurt, the loss, the hole he felt, it would never be totally gone, both gift and curse that it was. As for the car, it was a bittersweet memento of Troy, was a part of Troy. So many of his memories of Troy, good memories, were bolted and soldered and polished into that car. It was the reason he had put the car back together again. By himself. Why he couldn't let the car become so much junk. Suddenly, he knew that he could never treat the car as simply a means to an end, as another car to make money off of. It would never again be a car that another driver, no matter how talented, ever crossed over a finish line with. Not even for all the fame and NASCAR buyout fees in the world.

Though he knew he should be thanking the two brothers for not only ridding him of the ghost but for their insight, Bruce, instead, gruffly ordered, "Get off my track and stay gone this time." Had no intensions of letting the men see that they had gotten to him, that their words had hit their mark like the marksmen they apparently were. Then he turned his back on the Winchesters, stalked for the winner's circle stage and plastered on his showmanship smile for the fans.

Sam and Dean didn't miss that Bruce trailed his hand along the #36's hood as he passed by the car. Was proof that their words hadn't been lost on the man after all. That somewhere the man still had enough goodness in his heart to love…and to feel the sharp pain of loss.

The fans cheered as Garner turned ringmaster. He shouted out "So were you _bored_ by the today's race?! Do you all have the _guts_ to come back tomorrow to watch the drivers duke it out for a chance to impress the scouts for NASCAR?! Just imagine, one of the drivers you just saw race today, he might be coming to you live from your TV one of these days, taking the checkered flag at Dover!" Each taunting question, each statement garnered more heightened reaction in the crowd.

Smirking at Garner's antics, Dean turned to Sam with raised eyebrows as if to say, '_Are you seeing this guy in action?! Does he have multiple personalities or what?!_' Sam's forehead crinkled and he shook his head in disbelief. Ghosts they got, but people? People were crazy.

"Well, looks like our work here is done," Dean announced, was surprised to find when he turned around, that his small network of fans were still gathered around him, namely Sam, Bobby, Tim, Karl and Lilly Phillips and Pastor Pete. Turning to Karl, he extended his hand and the man readily shook it. "You do realize that there's a nice open space on Garner's team now. If you want back in…" Karl shared a look with his wife and they both smiled at Dean.

"Let's just say I'm in negotiation," Karl replied with a smile, nodding his head to Lilly, his true manager. "Thanks for proving to me I wasn't ready for the loony bin and for blackmailing me into coming today. It felt good, being back here."

At his side, Lilly offered a heartfelt, "Thank you," her look encompassing Dean and Sam. Then the couple turned away, found themselves surrounded by friends glad to see them.

Stepping forward, the Pastor extended his hand to Dean. "It's nice to know your skills aren't just good for crashing through churches," he joked, but there was absolutely no malice in his eyes. Instead his gaze harbored a mischievous twinkle as Dean shook his hand.

"Oh, no, Sam's the one that you have to thank for the redecorating," Dean assigned the blame with a cocky smile, shooting a look to Sam.

"It was your idea!" Sam heatedly grumbled under his breath before he turned to the Pastor wearing an earnest look of regret. "Pastor, I really am sorry about the damage. If .."

But the Pastor was laughing and shaking his head, "Like your brother said, a church is about the people, not the building..or the arrangement of the chairs."

"Or condition of the song books?" Dean couldn't help throw out, remembering the muddy tire treads on some of the hymnals.

Sam shot Dean a glare that clearly said, '_shut up'_ and '_stop helping me_.'

"Yeah, that too" Pastor Pete drawled, fabricating resentment at agreeing with Dean, but his smile held. "Just tell me it was for a good cause?"

In synch Dean and Sam reassured, "It was."

Tim and the Pastor smirked and shared a look, couldn't believe that they hadn't pegged the two men as brothers from the start. "Well, that's good enough for me," Pastor Pete graciously pardoned. "I hope to see you two again. Church services are at 10am Sundays."

"For the Hell and Brimstone sermons?" Dean joked, remembered his first meeting with the Pastor in the hospital.

"Nah, I only break that one out once a year, around Halloween. The sermon I have scheduled for your next visit is about how Abram lied about Sarai being his wife and how the deception caused Egypt all kinds of trouble," the Pastor lightly said, but there was a roguish smile turning up his lips.

Tim burst into laughter even as the two brave, capable men looked slightly chastised at the tongue in check reprimand for their deception at the track about being strangers instead of brothers. With a parting wink, the Pastor left the brothers to their repentance.

Dean, stepping closer to Tim, whispered, "Are you sure he's a real Pastor? His sense of humor…"

"Is wicked?" Tim sputtered in mirth, which earned him a glare from both brothers. When he could effectively wipe the smirk from his features, he settled a serious look onto Dean. "There's no use trying to convince you to stay, is there?"

Dean smiled but firmly answered, "Nope. But it sure was a great ride. Thanks for believing in me, Tim."

"People believe in ghosts, they have faith in people. Isn't it ironic that my dad used to tell me that?" Tim returned, a fondness in his eyes for the young man before him. "And I had faith in you for good reasons. Today proves it."

"Your job, I hope Garner doesn't…" Dean began, remembered Garner's threat to the head mechanic before the race.

"I think my job's safe. That is until the next race when one of his cars doesn't come in first. It's a song and dance we do whenever our team loses," Tim downplayed, had some hope that, after Dean and Sam's words about Troy, that the Garner who loved racing might just be making another appearance soon. "If you ever need a job as a driver or a mechanic on any track this side of the Mississippi River…"

"I'll know who to call," Dean finished, shook Tim's hand and then he watched as Garner's head mechanic approached the winner's circle and came onto the stage beside his boss. When Sam bumped his shoulder, Dean looked to his little brother, eyebrow raised.

"You should get up there," Sam said, nodding toward the stage, to Dean's rightful spot as the race's champion.

Instead of replying, Dean lowly said, "Let's hit the road," eyes catching Bobby's, including him in on the invitation. Then he turned away from the stage, began maneuvering his way through the gathered crowds, offering phony smiles to the words of congratulations and pats on the back he received from the race fans he passed. Found that earning praise from strangers, it meant little to him, was almost insulting against Sam and Bobby's earnest pride in him. That was until three giggling, gorgeous women stepped into his path and began gushing about how wonderful he drove, how brave he was, and asking if he would sign their t-shirts.

At Dean's fawning fanclub, Sam shot Bobby a look and rolled his eyes, couldn't help smirk as Bobby laughed at his antics. Shook his head as Dean obligingly autographed the three girls t-shirt _fronts_ with a flourishing signature that suspiciously looked like Winchester. When Dean moved forward again, left his fanclub practically swooning behind them, Sam nearly stepped on Dean's shoes in his effort to be close enough to Dean to throw out his question. "Did you just sign your real name, Dean?"

"Yeah, so," Dean shot back, finally breaking through the crowd and coming onto the pit area where the Impala sat waiting for them.

Coming to Dean's side, Sam was like an exuberant puppy, pacing him. "Dean, we're trying to keep things low key. You know, no publicity, no reporters…no shirts with your name on them."  
"Untwist your boxers, Sammy. We're gonna be out of the state in an hour. And besides, my autograph might not be worth anything as a race star but I hear serial killers memorabilia sell pretty good," he stated, a boasting smile turning up his lips as he met Sam's suspicious glare.

"You know this how?!" Sam lowly demanded, a pit opening in his stomach.

"I did some follow up on HH Holmes that's all," Dean nonchalantly threw out, not breaking his stride or taking too much notice of Sam's rising concern.

"You didn't put your name in, right? Didn't see if something of yours was selling…" Sam stammered, sick at the thought that his brother was on some list, that some twisted person would actually covet something Dean had left behind at a crime scene because they believed he was a sadistic killer. Honestly didn't want Dean to ever Google himself, find out how decimated his reputation had become, to start to believe, for one _second_, that any of it was true, that anyone knew anything about him aside from him…and Bobby.

"Course not, Sam!" Dean shot back, the thought ludicrous. But he wasn't blind to the relieved look that washed over his brother's features. He almost asked what it was about when he decided to leave it as one of the wondrous mysteries of having a geek as a brother. Turning to Bobby, he said, "So, I know this great restaurant two states over. It's on our way back to your place," hoping Bobby didn't bristle that he was practically inviting himself and Sam to his place. Found he wanted somewhere safe, somewhere normal, well his version of normal, to heal up. Didn't want to jump into another job right now. He actually wanted to have some time with Sam, with them just being family, not strangers, not driver and reporter, not even hunters, just plain old brothers.

"I could eat. 'Sides we won't have great pickings at my place until I hit the store," Bobby said with a smile, his look including Sam, reassuring the younger men that they were welcome to be his houseguests. Honestly, he was relieved the boys were taking a break because, by all accounts, it looked like they needed it. Between the stiffness he detected in Dean's motions and the way Sam worriedly, even possessively hovered at his brother's side, it looked like this job hadn't been the easiest on them. '_Course those two could complicate getting a cat out of a tree_,' he sourly but affectionately groused, knew that whatever nervous ticks he had developed over the past two years, he owed each and every one to the two idjits at his side. '_And I wouldn't have it any other way.'_

"Alright, give me a few minutes to get changed then you can follow my lead," Dean replied to Bobby, was glad the older hunter was willing to have them underfoot for awhile.

"My lead," Sam corrected as he jangled the Impala keys in his possession. When Dean turned to him to protest his claim, he pointed toward the #36 garage. "Go get out of that suit. Oh and unwrap your ribs."

"Who made you my boss…" Dean grumbled even as he headed toward the garage Sam had indicated, wishing he had simply stuffed his street clothing in the Impala before the race.

"God did when he made us brothers," Sam brazenly said, smirking at the dark look Dean tossed at him.

"You're forgetting that you're the younger brother, dude," Dean lowly shot back.

But Sam's comeback was instantaneous and sure. "I'm not forgetting that I'm the brother without the bruised ribs and cracked head. And I didn't just play crash up derby for the last hour and half."

"It was _racing_…" Dean corrected.

"Tell that to Anderson," Sam shot back with a smirk, felt the rest of his tension melt away when Dean's own lips turned up into a matching expression. Knew that things were getting back on track when he and Dean could readily agree on something, had a common foe to fight against instead of each other.

"Bet he's pissed," Dean predicted with a broad, happy smile.

"That's an understatement," Sam agreed, his own smile widening farther at the thought of the guy that had recklessly endangered his brother's life off sulking somewhere, knowing that NASCAR was going to come knocking tomorrow…and it wasn't going to be on his door. Sometimes justice did prevail.

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"So how's she handling?" Dean asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen in the car since they had left the track, Bobby following Sam's lead. He tried to make the inquiry light, non-consequential, as if it was truly the car's condition that was making him shoot glances to Sam every ten seconds.

"Good as new," Sam answered, loosening his tight grip on the steering wheel and sending Dean a reassuring smile. But it took a moment before Dean nodded, accepted his words. Dividing his attention now between road and brother, he watched as Dean rested more firmly back against the seat, not in exhaustion but…relief. Realized that Dean's question, his own answer, they were about the same thing: Their relationship, their bond.

Contentment and relief settled in the car when Dean turned his head and met Sam's glaze and the truth was there. They had weathered another storm, together. And somehow, they were stronger for it. And though their bond wasn't new, it was something better: old, as old as Sam was. Old and tried and tested and forged with love and loyalty. And yet it had new aspects, new priceless qualities, new depths, new scars and even newer impenetrable soldered joints. Ensuring it wouldn't break so easily in the future, against whatever forces it came up against.

"So you really think I could have been a contender, too?" Sam prodded, already knowing what he was setting himself up for, anticipating it.

"Yeah, in the pee wee league," Dean snorted, knowing that he was giving Sam what he wanted. That this wasn't an opening to throw out brotherly support but instead brotherly ridicule.

"Oh yeah," Sam protested, sending a fabricated offended look to his brother. Then, without warning, he jerked the Impala back and forth across the barren country road. "How about now?" he asked as he swerved the car left. "Now?" he taunted as he sent the car swerving right. "Or maybe now?" he goaded, as the Impala dodged left, tires almost hitting the shoulder of the road.

"Sam, you put one more _scratch_ on this car and …" Dean began to threaten, eyes boring into Sam's mischievous ones.

"What? You like me more than the Impala, remember?! And I have proof…" Sam brazenly shot back, his smile at 100 watt assurance.

"What proof?" Dean scoffed, shifting higher in the seat, giving his brother a look like he thought Sam had inhaled too many paint fumes when they fixed the Impala.

"Well, you never hit **me** with a crow bar," Sam pointed out, his smile broadcasting his belief that full victory was his to claim.

"The day is young, Sammy. The day is _very_ young," Dean drawled even as he inwardly wondered when Sam would ever realize that he was way out of his league, that when it came to all things of brotherhood, big brothers always won. Won because having a little brother, especially one like Sam, who was your biggest fan even when you were being the biggest jerk, that was a win on any given day. "And you do remember that Bobby's following you, right? Thinks you're a total retard who doesn't know how to drive?!" He couldn't help point out with a wide grin because, Sam, he liked a challenge, didn't want a nice, _boring_ brother.

"Oh crap," Sam cursed, immediately straightening out the Impala and shooting a look in the rearview mirror to the Camaro following them. Already cringing at what was probably going through the older hunter's mind, he wished that he had left Dean drive. '_This is what I get for trying to be protective of Dean?! Bobby now thinks that, not only am I a sap who invites him to see Dean race, but I drive like I'm having a seizure.'_

Seeing the scowl on Sam's face and knowing just what was going through his brother's head, Dean pulled out his cell phone and called Bobby. "Hey Bobby," he greeted, watched Sam's head swivel his way in dread, was amused by the way Sam's eyes bounced from road to him, road to him like a cartoon character watching a tennis match.

"-----"

Unsure if he wanted to hear Bobby's side of the conversation or if ignorance was bliss, Sam was left hanging onto every word Dean said. Was wondering how much damage control he was going to have to do afterwards to untarnish his driving reputation after Dean was done with him. But Dean's next words caught him off guard, totally.

"Yeah, everything's fine," Dean assured, smiling broadly at Sam, almost laughed at the disbelief and relief in his little brother's gaze. "The steering is just a little off. Sam's working to get it straightened out. I'll have to check it out back at your place."

"---"

"Alright," Dean said, disconnecting the call and giving Sam the 'E_verything's fine, I fixed it'_ look that was the staple of Sam's childhood …of his life.

For a moment, Sam sat dumbfounded. Dean maligning the Impala's reputation?! To protect his?! It was more proof than ever that the Impala…it wasn't even in the running for Dean's affection, not when it came down to his little brother. Sam was torn between reverently thanking Dean and happily gloating over how right he was about where Dean's true loyalty laid.

Knowing that look of Sam's, that gratitude, that shadow of a smirk that said he knew his big brother was just a big old sap, that look that warned him that his little brother might just hug him, Dean pointedly looked away from Sam. But even without being subjected to _seeing_ Sam's big old goofy smile, he knew Sam was leveling it at him, along with his big old puppy dog eyes of gratitude and love. As the silence in the car became suffocating, he braved a quick look to Sam, saw that Sam had moved on from goofy smile to smug smile status, gloating at the concession he recognized in Dean's actions, if not his words.

"Ah shut up and drive, Sam," Dean groused, though his affection peppered his tone and he couldn't quite fight a smile of his own.

Expertly maneuvering the Impala on the twisting road, just like the Winchester he was, Sam felt happiness wash over him. Dean didn't have to say the words, to say how he felt about him. Because sometimes words? They didn't mean anything compared to actions.

Contently watching the scenery slip by, Dean knew that, the destination of any path he traveled? It wasn't half as important as who was riding at his side, who was cheering in his corner. And when it came to traveling companions, he truly was a very blessed man. By anyone's standards.

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The End

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Thanks go out to everyone who read this story, who tuned in for this ending that took me so long to write. I really appreciated every review, everyone that put it on an alert, who kept the story alive when it seemed to "stall out" my muse.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.

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Epilogue

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Taking his life in his hands, Sam reached over to the Impala's radio from the passenger seat. Ignoring the sideways glare coming from his brother, he spun the tuner until static turned into voices…

"_If you're just tuning in, we're broadcasting live from Smithfield race track today. As many of you know, our hometown track was visited by NASCAR scouts, looking to see if any of the drivers showcasing their skills here were worthy to earn a contract to the pros. So Ethan, in your opinion, did any of the drivers catch the eye of the scouts?_

"_I hate to say it, because I'm a local boy, but Reuben, by all accounts, this race was a disappointment. The drivers seemed inexperienced, even lacking the most raw of talent, the passes were poorly executed, and the winner, Marcus Broman, from a small track sixty miles south of here, only gained the lead by haphazardly slipping by the pile up of the lead cars in the 3__rd__ to last lap. I saw the NASCAR scouts heading for the hills even as the checkered flag was being unfurled. Totally different race today from yesterday's."_

"_Yes, let's talk about yesterday's qualifying race. The fans today can't stop raving about the tension found on this very track only one day ago. And everyone was anticipating Bruce Garner's team car #36, driven by Dean Aron to do well today, if not decimate the competition and snag a contract from the big boys of professional racing. It must have come as a shocking disappointment to fans to not see the __qualifying__ race's __winning__ car and driver in this race today. Was there any explanation given for this shocking withdrawal?_

"_Oh it's the true talk of the spectators gathered here. Where is the driver who showed such incredible skill in the qualifying race? A driver that, if stories are correct, was on Garner's team as a __mechanic__ days before he slid behind the wheel and outdrove the best contenders from this entire state. Though the press was not officially invited to attend yesterday's race, I came as a loyal fan to the sport and let me tell you, the Dean Aron kid could drive! He out maneuvered his own teammate Anderson, who tried to crunch him into the wall, skillfully dodged the numerous accidents and flying cars and came up the positions like he was born driving a car. Consequently, the #36 car was previously driven by Troy Nichols. Sadly, Nichols lost his life racing a few months ago. He was known for his talent and heart, might have even caught the eye of NASCAR today. I'll miss seeing him on the track and in the winner's circle. I actually got a sound byte from Bruce Garner, owner of the #36 car as well the Smithfield track. This is what Garner had to say on the loss of Nichols, the disheartening absence of the #36 car and this track's new gifted driver's vanishing act."_

Then Garner's voice filled the Impala's interior and for as much as it was his idea to listen to the broadcast, just hearing the man's name almost had Sam reaching for the off switch. Almost.

"_Racing the #36 car yesterday was my way to honor Troy Nichol's memory. I had no intentions of entering it into today's competition."_

"_But your new #36 driver, Dean Aron seemed more than capable of winning today..in that very car. A car that local fans have seen win here time and time again. Except __today__, that car and its driver crossing over the finish line could have landed both into racing history. Was your sentimental decision really worth…."_

_Garner's baritone voice sliced across the reporter's words. "Troy's legacy is in his wins, his skill, not that car. Like I stated, the car was driven yesterday as a final goodbye to an exceptional driver and a man I counted as family."_

"_Well there you have it…sort of. Sentimentally over fame and fortune. I guess stranger things have happened…."_

With a twist of his wrist, Dean turned off the radio and shot Sam a look that had components of a pout and a scowl. "Man, Garner totally stole my lines about the legacy thing."

"He also said that it was his plan all along to not have you race today," Sam pointed out, a hint of disgust in his tone. "Guy's a liar of the 1st order."

"2nd order. We're liars of the first order, Sammy," Dean corrected, sporting a boasting smile. It earned him a mock glare from his brother, who sometimes didn't embrace the whole nefarious, bad boy ways of their lives.

"You know you're going to go down as a racing legend. 'The mysterious mechanic turned race car winner that disappeared without a trace'" Sam announced, like he was reading it from a headline, which he knew would appeal to his brother.

"Yeah, they'll be saying, '_Who was that helmeted man_?'" Dean half scorned and half envisioned with something like school boy relish.

Sam couldn't hold in his snort of laughter, watched as Dean's smile became genuine. Was something he truly hadn't seen much of since their father had died. Hadn't realized how much he had missed Dean's crazy line of thinking, lame sense of humor and ability to laugh even when it would be more appropriate to cry or run or surrender.

"Hey it wasn't a bad legacy to leave behind….worked out good for the lone ranger." Like an awesome thought had just come to him, Dean looked to Sam, a new level of glee immersed in his smile. "Which makes you Tonto."

Instantly Sam refuted, "I'm not calling you Kemosabe, Dean." But his brother was already beaming with victory. "I'm not, Dean!" And Sam was going to stick to his guns this time because, honestly, who needed a guy hiding behind a mask when you had an awesome big brother as a traveling companion.

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The End (I mean it this time. REALLY)

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Gentlemen….turn off your engines. The race is over.

I just didn't feel that the story was complete until we knew if anyone at the track scored a contract. Hope this tag worked and if it didn't, just strike it from your memory like any good jury member would.

The last name Dean was using in his racing "career" is the last name of the main character from 'Grand Prix', a movie with James Garner. (OK I haven't seen the movie but Dean's pretty well versed in things I'm not).

Thanks again for all the support, the reviews and alerts for this story. You made this a "great ride" for me.

Have an absolutely wonderful day!

Cheryl W.


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